Almost Human 30 Day Challenge
by mangochi
Summary: 30 Day Prompt Challenge! Prompts are listed as chapter headings. Ratings may change, any warnings will be posted at the top of each chapter. ****Only last chapter is rated M. Others are T or below.
1. Holding Hands

John fishes inside the grease-stained paper bag, frowning at its boxed contents. "Did you get the shrimp rolls?"

"I got the shrimp rolls," Dorian says patiently. "And the rangoons. And your noodles. You know, if you keep eating this way, your waistline will-"

"Shut up." John pulls his head out of the bag and folds the top down grudgingly, tucking his dinner beneath his arm as they stroll along the waterfront. The sun's just set, the streetlights beginning to turn on one by one, and it's warm enough for John to forgo his usual drive from his apartment to the Chinese food stand a few blocks away.

Dorian shrugs good-naturedly, his arm brushing against John's as they walk. "Just looking out for you, man. You've been getting kind of squishy lately."

"Shut up, you love it," John grumbles absently. He digs back in the bag and pops a crag rangoon into his mouth deliberately, chewing noisily around the cream cheese filling.

"Stop that, you shouldn't eat while you walk." Dorian reaches up and grabs John's wrist, pulling his hand away from his face, but he doesn't let go. John waits for a few seconds, wondering if it's just a fluke of the moment, but Dorian seems blissfully unaware, ignoring the grease on John's skin as he weaves their fingers together and holds on.

"Um," John says thickly, forcing himself to swallow the rest of the rangoon. "What-"

"Shh," Dorian says blithely, turning a dopily bright smile on him, and John's heartbeat seems to fumble for a second.

He wonders wildly for a moment if Dorian's been right all along and he's about to have a heart attack from one too many nights at the ramen stand.

"Just enjoy the moment, okay?" Dorian continues, looking back ahead as if nothing happened. "I am."

They walk on in silence for a couple minutes more, John growing increasingly conscious of his left hand. Dorian's hand is warm, just slightly cooler than his, but it feels like it's growing hotter by the second, and John can hear his own pulse pounding in his ears. The take out bag suddenly seems unbearably heavy, and he shuffles it discreetly in the crook of his right elbow.

"Here, let me," Dorian says, noticing his struggle. He reaches over and John instinctively shies away, raising his left hand in a reflexive attempt to bat Dorian away, but Dorian's hand comes with him and he ends up staring at their intertwined fingers dumbly.

"John, you okay?" Dorian asks tentatively, after a long moment of John frozen in computing mode. He squeezes their hands and John jumps.

"Um," he says.

"You said that already," Dorian points out. He tilts his head, concerned. "Is something wrong?"

John stares at him, then glances down at their hands. His chest feels full, his throat tight, like there's a million things waiting to be said, but he has no idea what those things are, or if he even wants to say them.

"No," he says at last, and Dorian's responding smile melts him faster than the rangoons he can feel seeping through the paper bag in his hand. "Everything's perfect."


	2. Cuddling

"This is i-insane," John raves, kicking at the wall. A chunk of ice bounces off and lands by his foot, and he glares at it. "How the _hell_ did it come to this?!"

"Calm down," Dorian reasons from his position in the back of the heavy-duty freezer. He's sitting on a pile of what looks like sacks of frozen peas, crusted over with a flaky layer of frost.

John exhales harshly, sees the plume of his breath in the dim blue light. He's already lost the feeling in his toes, no matter how much he stomps around the six by six chamber, and he jams his hands under his arms irritably.

"Damn it," he says, proud that his teeth don't chatter that time. Somewhere in the past ten minutes they've been trapped in the freezer, he's bypassed cold and entered somewhere in the regions of numbness, which he doesn't think is supposed to be a good sign.

Dorian looks completely unfazed, his face lighting up occasionally as he sends out intermittent distress signals. There's a sizeable dent in the steel door where he tried to bust them out during the first fifteen seconds, and a few smaller dints where John fired his gun in a fit of frustration and the bullets ricocheted madly against the walls and ceiling.

"Come here," Dorian says, opening his arms. "You'll wear yourself out."

"I'm not going to freeze into s-some kinda-" John flails his arms, "-this is _not_ how I'm going down, you hear me?"

"Or, you could come here." Dorian gestures pointedly. "Unlike you, I'm capable to raising my core temperature to approximately one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit."

"Bully for you," John snaps.

"John."

"_No_."

Dorian looks at him for a long moment, and John shifts his feet. "Fine," he says at last, his face miraculously growing warm in this situation, and he shuffles across the fridge, kicking up a spray of frost and sawdust.

Dorian spreads his legs wider, patting his lap with a cheerful grin, and John offers up a silent, vague prayer as he turns and sits down in front of Dorian.

Warmth is instant, spreading slowly from where his back leans against Dorian's chest, and John gives a prolonged shudder as his body tenses and begins to relax painfully. Dorian nudges closer, his legs pressing against the sides of John's thighs, and wraps his arms around John's torso.

"Better?" Dorian asks, with a trace of smugness that John elects to ignore.

"Relax." Dorian slides his palms over the back of John's frozen hands, and his temperature rises by a few more degrees.

"Ah," John says, not quite meaning to, and he clamps his mouth shut only to hiss in shock moments later as Dorian begins to work gently at his clenched fists, loosening his fingers.

"Ow," John complains, but he can already feel the blood rushing back in his hands, sending a prickling sensation down to his wrists. His skin feels too tight, his nerves burning, and it feels so damn good that he can almost cry from the relief.

Dorian cocks his head, and John feels his warm cheek brush against his still cold ear. "ETA for backup is three minutes."

"Thank God," John mutters, but only halfheartedly, and neither of them says a thing when he hooks his fingers in Dorian's sleeves and pulls the android's arms tighter around himself.


	3. Watching a Movie

John stares up at Dorian, dumbfounded. "You're serious."

Dorian looks back at him blankly from the couch, his eyebrows rising in question. "Yes…?"

"You've never seen _Pinocchio_," John says again, like repeating it slower will make it any less true.

"Educating myself on children's film classics hasn't exactly been high on my list of priorities, John." Dorian looks at him carefully, like he's questioning John's judgment. "Though I'm sure I can bump it up if it really means that much to you."

"Yeah, you do that," John orders, ignoring his partner's sarcasm. "I can _not_ believe you- it's a tragedy, all right? It's utterly embarrassing that you, of all people, haven't seen this." He slides the vid disk he chose earlier back in its case and begins spinning the rack around to access the films farther back.

"What are you doing?" Dorian asks, raising his voice over John's absent mutterings.

"Think I've got it…..somewhere here…..ow, damn it- yes!" He emerges victoriously, clutching the rectangular case in his hand.

Dorian gives it a critical once-over. "Is that a _Blu-ray_?"

John scowls defensively, popping the case open. "It's an antique," he argues. "You know how hard it is to get your hands on a Blu-ray player these days?"

"I'm honored," Dorian says wryly. "Come on, let's see it, then." He gestures and John tosses him the case, bending and swiping a sleeve over his dusty video system.

When he next looks up, Dorian's staring intently at the case cover, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "It looks…"

"Awful," John agrees, "but a necessary evil." He eyes his Blu-ray player dubiously, wondering if it'll actually still work after all these years.

"No, hold on, man, I've got this." Dorian taps the side of his head and grins. "Have a seat."

John squints at him suspiciously for a moment, then pushes himself to his feet, sitting next to Dorian on the couch.

Dorian opens the case and touches two fingers to the disk, the circuits on his cheek flickering briefly as he glances at the television.

"Oh my God," John says, giving a surprised laugh as the iconic Disney castle fizzles to life on the plasma screen. "You're better than cable." He slouches back more comfortably as the castle fades, feeling the cushions dip beneath him and his left leg slide over to press against Dorian's knee.

"You want to grab me a beer?" he asks a few minutes later, waving a hand to dim the overhead lights.

"Shh," Dorian says absently, eyes fixed unblinkingly on the screen, and John grins.


	4. On a Date

**A/N: THANKS TO THE PERSON WHO TOLD ME THE CHAPTERS WERE MESSED UP.**

"You really know how to woo a guy," Dorian says blandly. "This whole sitting in the dark thing. Very original."

"Ass," John says automatically, scowling up at the busted lights. "This wasn't in the plan." He can imagine the next morning at the station after yet _another _unprecedented electrical outage, rebellion at the coffee machines, the chargers…..

Dorian is now contemplating the blank television screen seriously. "Is our date over?"

John sighs and pushes himself to his feet, scratching at the back of his head. "I don't know, D. It was movie night and everything." He gives his carefully arranged layout on the coffee table a wistful glance- it's the usual, two cold beers and a bowl of popcorn, but it looks pitifully under-prepared in the half light coming from his windows.

"It's all right," Dorian says consolingly, after a moment. He tips his head and looks up at John, his grin a comforting gleam of white teeth in the shadows. "We'll make it up some other time."

John gives a noncommittal grunt, suddenly glad that Dorian can't see his expression in the dark. Then, just as abruptly, it occurs to him that Dorian probably _can_, and he smooths over his frown instantly, looking out the windows over the darkened city.

Oh.

"Come with me," he says, and holds out his hand.

It's not often that they do this, and each time is memorable enough that John can recount each time, but Dorian reaches up now and takes his hand, and he forgets everything but what's happening this second.

"This is new," Dorian says, when they bypass his bedroom and head for the door. "Should I be expecting surprise field trips every movie night now?"

"Shh," John tells him distractedly, poking his head out into the hallway and checking it's clear before leading Dorian out.

"Someone might see," Dorian points out, but he doesn't let go of John's hand.

"They won't." John shoulders open the door to the stairs and holds it open for Dorian to step through. "C'mon."

He only trips three times on the four flights up, which he considers a success and Dorian considers a comedy.

"Step," the android's particularly fond of saying, right after John miscounts and slips.

"Shut up," John grumbles, taking stock of his newly acquired bruises, and they continue on.

The glowing green exit sign at the top floor is an inexpressible relief. John pushes the door open, braces himself against the night wind that threatens to slam the door back in his face, and they step out onto the flat, open roof.

He's only been up here a handful of times, once when he rented the apartment, and a couple of times afterwards on particularly bad days when his leg hurt more than usual and the dreams were worse than they'd been in a while.

A steel fence wraps around the square perimeter of the roof to prevent any unwelcome ideas. The roof itself is wide and empty, a single sheet of concrete that glitters palely in the dark.

Dorian looks around with polite interest. "Nice."

John snorts and jostles his arm, then points up with their interlocked hands. "Look up."

The sky is black, darker than the city that usually fills the night with an orange haze of light and noise, and scattered with millions, billions of stars. The moon is a thin sliver of white above them, Venus a tiny red pinprick, and John picks up the more familiar constellations with a single glance.

It takes him a second to realize that Dorian's gone still beside him, and he tears his eyes away from the sky to look over.

Dorian's head is tipped back, his eyes bright and shining, and John swears that he looks like he's about to cry until the android blinks and glances at him with a faint smile.

"Um," John says, caught off guard.

"Better than a movie," Dorian says quietly, his fingers tightening around John's affectionately. "Way."

John clears his throat uncomfortably, suddenly forgetting how to breathe. "You think?"

"Mmm, yeah." Dorian's smile widens, their shoulders bumping together, and John feels like it's the only thing keeping him from falling into the cosmos. It's a stupidly sappy thing to think, an even worse one to consider seriously, but here he is, standing under the stars and wishing idiotically that the outage would last forever.

Dorian squeezes his hand again, and John gives up. He hasn't been rational since the day he let Dorian into his car, anyway.


	5. First Kiss

"Hey."

John looks up just as Dorian drops down on the step beneath him, sprawling easily against the stair rails. "Congrats."

"For what?" Dorian picks up one of John's crutches, spins it with one hand. "You weren't that hard to find, you know. Only an idiot would try to hide on the stairs with these." He glances up at John, taking in his hospital gown, the way the fabric dips beneath his right thigh. "You okay?"

"You going to take me back?" John asks testily in response. He plays with his necklace in his hands, pouring the chain from his palm and catching it again.

"No."

John looks at him, surprised, then slants his gaze back to the glint of silver disappearing between his fingers. "Why not?"

"You don't like hospitals," Dorian says evenly. "I don't, either. Fair's fair, right?"

"What'd they ever do to you?" John snags his crutch back as Dorian twirls it around again, leaning it against the wall besides its twin.

"It's like me and Rudy, you know? He means well and it's his job, but I hate that table he's got." Dorian's tone is lighter than his words implicate, and John can't shake the feeling that it's for his benefit. Everything Dorian does is for his benefit, and that makes him uncomfortable and...and something else, in every way. "I don't like being broken."

"Yeah, well." John stares down at his left leg and doesn't look at the gap beside it. "Me neither."

It's quiet for a moment, and John listens to the muted sounds of the hospital bustle beyond the door to the stairwell. If anyone looks in now, it'll all be over, but right now, with Dorian's leg pressing against his shin and the stillness around them, he can pretend he's anywhere else but two floors away from where he woke up all those months ago.

Dorian shifts, and then he's pushing himself up to sit on the step beside John, their shoulders brushing as he leans back and gazes at the bottom of the stairs above them. "You want me to give you a few minutes?"

"No," John answers, maybe a little too quickly. He squints at the floor until the heat leaves his face before raising his head. "You don't have to go."

"What if I want to?" Dorian asks, and John doesn't have to look to hear the grin in his voice. "You're pretty awful company."

John snorts obligingly and wraps his fingers around his necklace, gathering it into a ball in his fist. "Liar." Dorian's hand comes out of nowhere, closes over his fist in a loose grasp. John doesn't quite jump, but it's a close thing.

"Is it a matching one?" Dorian asks, pulling the necklace out of John's slackened grip. John feels a muscle in his jaw jump nervously- he's never let anyone handle it before, barely let it off his neck at all until the doctors told him he couldn't have it on during his MRI. It looks good though, the silver glinting against Dorian's skin, and John feels a sinking sense of doom in his chest.

He's got it bad. Too bad.

John clears his throat when he realizes Dorian's watching him expectantly. "Yeah. The J on the back's for me." He thinks about _her_ necklace, dangling from his rearview mirror, and wonders if it's about him he takes it off. It's good silver, hard to get these days, and maybe he can get it melted down, make something new...

"Huh." Dorian rubs at the pendant thoughtfully, carefully, and John wants to do something very, very stupid. He squeezes his hands on the edge of the step and thinks about anything else. "It's...different."

"Huh?" John asks distractedly, then blinks. "Yeah, it's pointless, I know. Who the hell even does it anymore?"

"No, I like it," Dorian insists. "It's you." He sounds completely serious, and John hesitates uncertainly.

"Yeah?"

The corner of Dorian's mouth hitches up, and he leans over slightly, slipping the necklace back in John's hand. "Would I lie?"

He's too close, smiling up at John with his mouth and eyes, and John stares at him helplessly. The idiotic urge is back in full force, tearing at his throat and stomach.

John drags his eyes, forces a halfhearted laugh. "You would."

There's a pause, a stretched out silence that does nothing for his abused nerves, then he hears an unintelligible mutter and suddenly there's a hand on the side of his face, warm and oddly smooth.

"You're pretty bad at this whole detective thing," Dorian informs him gravely, and then his mouth is soft and exasperated against John's, and John can't really bring himself to argue.


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

John's breath rushes out of him in a stream of white bubbles when he hits the water, and he's briefly disoriented before he manages to flip back around.

The cold night air is a slap to the face when his head emerges from the surface of the bay, and he coughs as he struggles to stay afloat. Flashes of gunfire still flicker from the boat as it drifts slowly away from the pier, and John paddles after it clumsily, spluttering garbled curses as choppy waves slap him in the face.

There's a muffled shout, and a flailing body goes flying off the boat. John watches the man splash into the dark water, and he imagines for a moment that he sees Dorian turn away from the rail of the boat.

"Damn it," he gurgles angrily, paddling faster. He should be up there _helping_, instead of down here with a growing lump on his head where the asshole with the knit cap whacked him with the crowbar. He doesn't think he's bleeding, but it's impossible to tell now when he can't feel a thing except the water flying in his eyes and the annoyance building in his gut.

The boat's stalled in the water by the time he reaches it, eerily quiet. It takes John a couple of tries to grab the ladder, but he finally hoists himself out of the water, his clothes heavy and dripping. He's lost, he notices hysterically, a single shoe, his sock squishing disgustingly on the metal rungs.

Dorian's face appears over the rail when he's halfway up, a new gash oozing on his forehead. "Hello, John," he says pleasantly, like John's on some kind of goddamn field trip instead of freezing his ass off on the side of a smuggler's boat. "Need a hand?"

John considers telling him where he can stick his hand, but his jaw has long since grown numb from his chattering teeth. He grunts instead and keeps climbing.

Dorian reaches down anyway when he's in range, and John grabs his hand wordlessly. He's up over the rail in a second with an effortless tug from Dorian's end, and then he's standing in a rapidly forming puddle on the deck.

There's about three smugglers hogtied and piled neatly against the side of the cabin, two of them out cold and one making outraged noises around the rag stuffed in his mouth.

"Nice," John manages, his teeth clicking together once before he clenches them shut. He makes an attempt to remove his jacket, but it's plastered to his body and he swears he can feel himself slowly freezing in the open air.

"One went over," Dorian informs him. "I've informed Coast Guard, and they should be on their way with backup."

"G-Great." John glances over the rail, where he can just see the glittering skyline and the docks. "S-Shit," he adds, when a sudden gust of wind decides to descend upon his soaking head.

"Let's go inside." Dorian's hand closes around his arm, and John lets himself be tugged into the cabin. It's barely warmer, but at least he's out of the wind, and he sinks gratefully onto the narrow bench beside the radio. He's finally gotten his jacket off, and it drops to the floor with a wet slap, the orange lining sadly stained. His shirt is another issue altogether, glued to his torso like a second skin, and he gives up after plucking at the hem a few times.

Dorian steps in front of him, and John leans forward slightly, instinctively seeking out the warmth of another body. He catches himself before he can complete the gesture, and cranes his head back uncomfortably to meet Dorian's eyes. "W-what?"

"Let me." Dorian gestures, but John doesn't realize what he means until Dorian's hands are on his waist.

"Whoa, _whoa_, hold up-"

"John, you're going to freeze," Dorian says reasonably, the way mothers tell their toddlers that no, they can't put that in their mouths. "Risk hypothermia, at the very least. Arms up." He says the last two words briskly, and John responds without thinking, the result of years of training that even his personality can't quite overcome.

He can't contain his shiver when Dorian peels his shirt off, the cold fabric sliding over his face. He barely recognizes himself, his skin pale and clammy, icy to the touch when he crosses his arms shakily over his bare chest. His necklace burns dully where the chain has all but frozen itself against his skin.

John blinks at the sound of rustling, and he glances up again to catch Dorian shrugging off his own jacket, shaking it out and leaning deliberately over John.

"No," John says automatically, shying away from the offer. "No, I'm fine. You shouldn't."

Dorian somehow manages to look both exasperated and amused. "I don't need it, John, trust me."

"_I _don't need it."

"Uh huh." Dorian drops the jacket over his shoulders, and John's clutching at the edges before he can stop himself.

"Shut up," he mutters, pushing his arms through the sleeves and zipping the garment up all the way to his neck. It irks him a bit that Dorian's broader across the shoulders, but he folds the end of the sleeves over his cold fingers and revels in the warmth anyway.

"You need pants?" Dorian's hands move towards his belt, and John scowls so hard that he feels himself almost strain a muscle. "No? I'm sure one of the guys out there is your size."

"I think I'll take wet pants, thanks," John mutters. "Thanks," he says again awkwardly, sneaking an upwards look. Dorian's watching him with an odd look, and John finds himself fixated on a round hole high on the shoulder of Dorian's gray shirt.

"You, um, you've got..." John waves his hand vaguely and Dorian looks down at himself.

"Oh." Dorian pokes at the hole briefly, frowns slightly at the residue on his finger when he pulls away. "It's minor damage, Rudy will have it patched up in no time."

"That's...good." John tries to pretend that it doesn't bother to see Dorian digging absently at the hole. "Okay, stop that. Just, no."

Dorian glances at him, his eyes flicking up and down in that peculiar way again. "It looks good on you, man. The drowned rat look."

"I'm not laughing," John says, disgruntled.

"Blue's your color." Dorian grins, and John almost tells him that it brings out Dorian's eyes better.

Almost.

"How long until back-up's here?" he asks instead, wiping at his damp face with the cuff of Dorian's jacket.

"A few minutes." Dorian sits down right next to him, his arm pressed against John's even though there's a good three feet of bench on his other side, and John feels rising heat along his side. He humphs and gathers the jacket tighter around himself.

"Good."


	7. Cosplaying

"This is ridiculous," John says, staring at his reflection in dismay. He reaches up to touch his hair, only to have his hand smacked away by the department stylist.

"Don't touch," she says, popping her gum, and douses his head in another cloud of hairspray.

By the time he recovers, Dorian is grinning at him placidly from the next chair over. "I don't know, man, this is kinda cool."

"_Kinda cool_? Only you'd say something like that." John plucks helplessly at the glossy blue fabric across his chest, his finger bumping against the silver insignia over his left pectoral. "I mean, Star Trek? Really?"

"You know, I've always figured you for a Trekkie."

John points a finger. "You. Shut up. Who the hell am I even supposed to _be_-"

"You," his stylist interrupts, stabbing him in the scalp with the end of a comb, "are Dr. Leonard Horatio McCoy, the most badass space doctor in television history. With Dr. M'Benga over there."

John mouths the words "Leonard Horatio McCoy" incredulously at the mirror. Beside him, Dorian's downright snickering.

"Horatio, my man, is not far from Reginald on the list of worst middle names ever."

"At least I have a first name," John retorts, aware that it's no comeback at all. "Damn it, stop messing with my hair, it's a wonder I've got any left-"

"Yeah, just keep that up," she tells him in a bored tone, flipping on the electric razor. "You're a natural."

…

"These pants are too tight," John says again for the sixth time in the fifteen minutes they've been in the convention. "Goddammit, Dorian, where are you?"

_"It's M'Benga, remember?,"_ says the comm in his ear, Dorian sounded all too amused for John's liking. _"Gotta keep in character, man. You never know who's listening in."_

"Haha. Still not laughing here." John leans against a column beside a potted plant, crossing his arms and glaring warningly at another group of teenagers gawking at him from across the hotel lobby. "This is insane," he grits out through clenched teeth. "They keep _looking_."

_"I think it's fun."_

"It's weird, is what it is."

_"Hey, everyone's dressed up, all right? Trust me, we're not the weirdest ones here. Oh hey- so you're Christine Chapel, are you? A picture? Sure, sure, c'mon over here."_

"Dorian," John hisses, when the comm crackles and Dorian's voice fades away. "Damn it, come in-"

"Oh. My God. You're McCoy?" exclaims an elderly man with a herd of grandchildren in tow, and John spends the twenty minutes silently cursing whoever thought up their covers. It's probably Paul, the smug bastard, John's going to get _so _even later-

John suffers through the last flash of pictures, another hearty slap on the back from the old-timer, who looks like he's seen Gene Roddenberry himself descend from the very heavens, and finally makes his escape, patting at his hair flusteredly.

_"Having fun?"_

"Oh, so _now _you want to talk," John gripes, adjusting his shirt and trying to shake the feeling that the hand he felt on his ass during the last group photo belonged to the grandpa. Then again, judging by the age of the grandkids, he's not altogether sure which is the worst poison. "Where are you, anyway? Aren't you supposed to be looking for Robinson?"

_"Up here."_

John tips his head back and sees Dorian standing on the second-story catwalk above him, leaning against the rail and _waving_, the cocky maniac. He's got a skinny Darth Vader cuffed to the rail beside him- Robinson, John presumes.

"I'll be right up," he says in the comm. "Don't, don't go anywhere, you hear? You stay right there and don't you take any more pictures." He sees Dorian's smile widen and jabs a threatening finger in his partner's direction before heading for the stairs.

It's an open and shut case, Darth Vader cracking and giving them the location of the stash within seconds of John getting in his unmasked face, and they're out of the convention in an hour.

"Pants are still too tight," John grumbles.

"I like them." Dorian looks almost wistful. "We should've gotten our picture taken back there."

John slashes a hand vehemently through the air as they approach his car. "_No._ No way, you hear me? No pictures. Ever."

"It's a once in a lifetime opportunity, John," Dorian admonishes, gesturing at the air between them. "This is a classic moment right here, man. Where's your inner child?"

"Dead. Didn't make it past high school," John says dismissively. He reaches out to open his door, then pauses, looking at Dorian over the top of the car. The android's practically _sulking_, his eyebrows pulled down and his eyes big and shiny as he stares plaintively at John.

"Ahhhh, hell." John throws his hands in the air, rolling his eyes so hard that he almost gives himself a headache. "Get over here. Come on," he adds impatiently, when Dorian's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Before I change my mind." He pulls out his phone while Dorian circles around the car, propping it up on the roof and angling the camera towards them.

"Get the building in the back," Dorian instructs, bouncing on his heels beside him, and John obliges grouchily.

"There, princess, you happy?" He sets the timer and steps back, then nearly trips when Dorian slings an enthusiastic arm around his shoulders. "Hey, watch it-"

"Smile," Dorian says, his face somehow much closer to John's than he expects, and John's still staring at him when the camera flashes.

"Let me see," Dorian demands, as soon as John retrieves his phone. John takes a look at the screen, scowls, and slides it in his pocket without a word, busying himself with opening his car door so that he doesn't have to show his face.

"John, let me see the picture."

"Later," John says, and resolves to never let Dorian see his expression in that damn photograph.

Because there's no way Dorian will ever let him live it down, and there's that small chance, that microscopically tiny, but still very existent chance that John doesn't want him to.


	8. Shopping

"You're out of broccoli," Dorian says, and John looks up from the news at the bizarre statement.

Dorian's standing in his kitchen, bent over as he stares critically into the depths of John's fridge.

"I hate broccoli," John tells him mildly. "Since when have you seen me eat broccoli?"

Dorian ignores him, pulling out a storage drawer and examining it. "And any other form of green vegetable. Jeez, man, what do you _eat_?"

"Things," John says vaguely, redirecting his attention to the television. He scratches at his stomach, crossing his left ankle over his right knee, and tries to ignore the sounds of Dorian rustling around in his peripheral.

"It's a wonder you're still alive. Really, man?"

John glances up again to see Dorian holding up his box of ramen cups. "It's economical."

"It's a heart attack waiting to happen."

"Odds are, I'll get shot first," John says dismissively, then blinks when the television switches off. "Hey, I was—"

His pants come sailing at him and land over his head, and he hears Dorian's brisk voice, "Put your pants on, we're going shopping."

….

Dorian's all too excited about the shopping cart, and John takes it away from him before he can wreck the cereal aisle.

"Get the chocolate stuff," he says, after the fifth box Dorian pulls randomly from the shelf and holds up for inspection. "There, behind you. _No_, not the granola one, are you crazy? There."

Dorian's eyebrows shoot up when he reads the back of the box. "That's a _lot _of sugar."

"Just put it in," John gripes, then rattles the cart on once Dorian reluctantly drops the box in. "You're worse than my mother."

"You're worse than a six-year-old," Dorian counters. "Is there anything you _can_ cook?"

John thinks for a moment. "Eggs," he says doubtfully, and Dorian looks heavenward.

"Any allergies?" Dorian asks when they reach the produce section, which John's been attempting to avoid by distracting Dorian with the coupons he found at the bottom of his glove compartment.

"Everything here," John tries.

Dorian responds by putting a lettuce in the cart.

"I can't cook lettuce," John protests, watching helplessly as Dorian piles his cart with all manner of uncookable things. "Seriously, this is all just going to sit in my fridge, you realize? Slowly rotting away and making us both feel bad."

"That's not going to happen," Dorian says, scanning the bags of grapes intently before picking one and setting it on top of a bundle of leafy things that John can't even identify.

"Oh, yeah? Bet it does," John retorts. Dorian's tugging at the end of the cart now, pointing them towards checkout, and John pushes it forward wearily.

"It's not going to, because I'm going to cook," Dorian announces, and John nearly runs his own foot over.

"What? You can _not _cook."

"I can," Dorian says smugly. "Rudy's been teaching me. I can make a frittata now."

"A fri- fritta-" John gives up and settles for shaking his head incredulously. "Unbelievable."

"I'm serious," Dorian says. "It's my job to keep you alive. And happy. Real food does all these things."

"You're exaggerating." Somehow, though, he can see it, Dorian in his kitchen for the next few days making…..making unpronounceable things. It's not a bad thought at all, he decides, even when he sees the cringe-worthy amount at the cashier. Besides, Dorian promised him a donut after they were done shopping.


	9. Hanging Out With Friends

The fourth round of shot glasses slam down on the wooden counter in broken syncopation, and John stifles a reflexive cough as the alcohol burns a trail down his throat.

"Too much for you, Kennex?" Richard slurs loudly from the far end of the counter, leaning over precariously to leer at John.

"Shut up," John answers, separating his words carefully. Beside him, Valerie gives a soft snort, looking utterly composed as she spins her empty glass on its rim.

"Blood alcohol content at six percent," Dorian informs him dryly from his other side. "Keep this up, I might have to drive you home tonight."

"Not a chance," John says instantly. "I'm fine."

Rudy gives a jolting snore from between Valerie and Richard, burrowing his head deeper into his arms, and Richard huffs in amusement, reaching out and ruffling the man's floppy hair clumsily. "One more?"

"I'm game if you are." Valerie turns to John, arches a perfect eyebrow, and that's a challenge he can't back down from.

"I'm capping you off at ten percent," Dorian murmurs. "I think you still remember the last time you went over."

"Yeah, do that," John mutters back, then looks back at the rest of the group. "Bring it on, Paul. I can handle anything you've got."

"Like hell you will. Here we go, here we go..." Richard shuffles the glasses down the line and raises his own in the air. "To the case, huh?" The toast is echoed in varying degrees of sobriety, and John nearly misses his mouth when he throws the shot back.

"Beep, beep," Dorian says, deadpan. "Eleven percent."

"Wha...?" John squints suspiciously at his glass. It blurs a little in his hand, and he shakes it like it'll make it clearer. "Strong as _shit_." He then promptly drops the glass and it shatters on the floor. "Ah, hell."

"My God, he's a lightweight," Valerie says, delighted, and Richard fumbles for his phone.

Dorian leans in slightly and peers into John's face, waving a hand in front of his eyes experimentally. John stares back, wondering why everyone's so happy and loud and wow, Dorian's eyes are so blue, it's ridiculous-

"Good night," he thinks he says, before it's suddenly lights out and that's it, that's all she wrote.

Dorian claps a hand to John's forehead before the man's head can thunk onto the counter, lowering it down gently with an exasperated sigh. "What the hell was in that drink?"

"A little of this," Valerie says vaguely.

"A little of that," Richard finishes, his eyes distinctly unfocused. "Something my granny used to call Piss-drunk Russian. Now spill."

Dorian looks up from John's unconscious figure and raises his eyebrows, his curiosity rising. "You planned on this."

"Hoping," Valerie shrugs. "Honestly, I didn't think he'd go down so easily."

"Never mind that," Richard says impatiently. "What's he like then, huh? What's the stupidest thing he's ever done?"

"I assume you're talking about John." John gives a small twitch, like he subconsciously knows he's being talked about, before his shoulders slump down again. He's almost tipping over, and Dorian subtly nudges his knee closer to keep John's leg from sliding clear off the stool.

"He's very private, you must admit." Valerie props her chin up on her hand, her long hair falling over one shoulder, and Dorian notes the way Richard's eyes mark the movement distractedly. He files the tidbit away for later consideration, lets the hint of a smirk raise the corner of his mouth and he sees Richard scowl self-consciously. "Everyone's a bit curious about the man behind the frown."

"The man behind the frown," Dorian repeats, and laughs. "I like that." John snuffles in his sleep and turns his face towards Dorian, and Dorian glances down at him once before turning sideways to lean against the bar, mimicking Valerie's easy lounge. "What do you want to know?"

"Something humiliating," Richard blurts out at the same time as Valerie says, "Something sweet." They glance at each other, Valerie with a little wrinkle between her eyebrows that has Richard flushing furiously at the counter

"Both's easy enough," Dorian says. The two detectives lean forward slightly in interest, and Dorian feels something give, a trickle of warmth he usually only feels when he's with John. "There was this one time he tried to make dinner."

Richard makes a dismissive sound and Valerie looks mildly intrigued. John snorts and starts tilting towards him, and Dorian pushes at his shoulder lightly with a hand to keep him in place. "It was an omelet, I think. Something easy, light on ingredients. I wasn't sure how much more he could handle."

Valerie lets out a soft laugh at that and even Richard looks reluctantly engaged.

"Getting the eggs onto the pan was hard enough and I offered to help, but John insisted on doing it by himself." Dorian still recalls that night, kept the memory file in the private archive Rudy's agreed to leave alone during routine diagnostic tests. He didn't even know John owned an apron up to that point, much less a red and white Kiss the Chef one. "As you can probably imagine, it was fairly brutal."

John keeps slipping insistently to the left, and Dorian finally scoots his stool closer, propping an arm across John's shoulders and keeping John's head on the counter.

"But the thing is, he wouldn't give up," Dorian continues. He smooths a thumb absently across a crease in John's jacket, scans John's vitals in a single blink that's become a habit over time. "Must have made a dozen of them before he managed to not burn one, but he did it." He remembers watching the eggshells pile up in the waste bin, the sound of John's low curses as he scrapes yet another failure from the pan, but the look on his face when that last omelet slid from the pan to the plate...a thousand photo stills can't compare to the real thing.

"The thing is, I think he forgot I don't eat," Dorian says thoughtfully. "Because he made another one right after." John covered it up well, for someone with his admittedly low level of discourse skill, blustering something about "all this cooking making him damned hungry," and Dorian smiled and nodded at him and acted like John's screw-up wasn't the best thing that happened to him all day.

"What a goof," Richard mutters, but Valerie's looking distinctly affected.

"That's unbelievable," she says, looking down at John, and Dorian tightens his grip on John's shoulder before he realizes what he's doing and relaxes again.

"Unbelievably wasteful," Richard argues stubbornly. "The number of eggs he used _alone_-"

The conversation shifts to the two of them, and Dorian contentedly returns his attention to John. John's coming to a little now, eyelids struggling to rise even as he drools onto the countertop and wriggles uncomfortably on the hard stool. "D...?"

"Yeah, man, I'm here."

John shuffles a weight a little more, then sighs, a loopy grin spreading loosely across his face. "...'s fun tonight."

"Yeah? You had fun tonight?" Dorian can imagine the next morning all too well, and he makes a note to double John's coffee intake before shift.

"Me too."


	10. Animal Ears

"I cannot believe," John says, for the umpteenth time, "that you dragged me into this."

Dorian turns towards him, puzzled. "It was a gift," he points out. "It would be rude to not use it."

"No, see, that's not how it works. If someone gives you something, there's not some...some kind of moral obligation to _use _it, especially when they're tickets to a _kiddie park,_" John stares up at the approaching entrance gate with growing horror.

"It's going to be fun," Dorian says bracingly, turning back to the front as the line shuffles forward at an agonizing pace. "You'll see."

John bites back the obvious words, that clearly Dorian hasn't ever been to an amusement park and therefore has no idea what the hell he's talking about, and takes a single step forward to cover the six-inch gap widening between them and the family of six in front of them.

The girl behind the kiosk looks properly entertained when she glances over them, but Dorian hands over the premium passes Rudy pressed on them last Christmas and smiles, and she gives them two extra waves when they pass.

"Man," John says, as soon as they pass under the arch and he sets foot on the rounded cobblestones. "I haven't been here since I was a kid."

"I didn't know this park was around in the Stone Age," Dorian says blandly, looking around intently. His face flickers intermittently, like it's all a little too much for him to take in all at once

"Ha, that was weak," John dismisses. Another family passes, two parents with a little girl swinging between them, and he watches them disappear into the crowd before he realizes what he's doing.

"John, over there," Dorian says, his voice full of awe, and John follows his gaze to a chubby toddler in a stroller.

"What?"

"Those are _ears_."

John squints, and yeah, he can make them out now. The holographic bunny ears glowing gently from the band over the kid's head. The left ear is bending up and down slowly in a wave, the other swiveling back and forth, and it's nothing new, really, but Dorian's practically shorting a circuit with obvious envy.

"You want some?" John asks resignedly, already reaching for his wallet, and Dorian's head snaps around to stare at him.

"Really?"

"Hey, we're already here," John shrugs vaguely. "It can't get much dumber than this."

Dorian trails behind him to the shop with sunglasses, maps, strollers for rent, and John makes his best "I _will_ shoot you" expression when the cashier raises a plucked eyebrow at his purchase.

Dorian's all but vibrating where he stands when John turns around with the headband, and he reaches out hesitantly with both hands. "Can I...?"

John considers him for a moment, then gives an amused huff. "All right, c'mere. Bend over."

Dorian looks at him plaintively, reaching again, and John pulls away. "Nope, bend over. Just do it, come on. People are staring."

"This is cruel and demeaning," Dorian says dryly, but he bends slightly at the waist and presents himself to John.

"It's satisfactory, is what it is," John corrects, adjusting the band on Dorian's head and giving the side of his skull a brisk slap. "All right, you're set."

Dorian straightens, shaking his head experimentally, and the holographic bunny ears flicker into place. John watches as one ear waves at him, and he finds it difficult to keep a straight face as Dorian widens his eyes, trying to look up at the ears.

"Huh." Dorian frowns slightly, and the bunny ears fizz at the edges, disappearing briefly before sparking back into view, this time shorter and pointier.

"Are you serious," John demands, annoyed and incredulous all at once. "Are you being completely serious right now, D?"

"Meow," Dorian says gravely. "How do I look?"

"Like an ass."

"It's supposed to be a cat."

John exhales in exasperation again, looking up at the sky. It's a pale blue with wisps of white cloud high in the stratosphere, and John has a dizzying flashback of a much shorter vantage point, a large hand around his and a gruff, blurry smile that he can't quite remember anymore.

Dorian's watching him when he looks back now, the stupid cat ears revolving intermittently, and John doesn't try to stop his mouth from twitching in repressed laughter this time.

"God, you look ridiculous," he mutters, and Dorian laughs quietly at him.

"I know," Dorian says smugly.


	11. One is Awake While The Other is Asleep

John's breathing is slow and even, his heartbeat steady against Dorian's chest, and Dorian shifts closer, rests a hand against John's side.

It's not often that John drops his guard like this, just falls asleep without complaining about Dorian being too clingy or taking off his leg. Dorian slides his hand down to it now, lightly tracing the seam between silicon and warm flesh. John twitches a little at his touch, exhaling in a long sigh, and his arms relax around the spare pillow he's clutching firmly to the chest, despite Dorian's previous efforts in prying it away without waking him.

Dorian reaches out and grasps a corner of the pillow between two fingers, tugging experimentally, and John instantly clamps back around it, burying his face into the case with a muffled grumble. He hitches his right knee up, putting the pillow in a perfect triangle choke hold, and Dorian allows himself an indulgent smile, shuffling forward to fit himself around the curve of John's back.

John breathes out again, his brow furrowing in a dazed frown before smoothing out again. He looks younger like this, the lines around his mouth relaxed and the silver moonlight on his face.

Dorian looks down at him thoughtfully, then lowers his head, nuzzling forward against the back of John's neck. John tenses, his breathing halting briefly, and Dorian runs a quick scan, stilling his movements. After a few seconds, John's breathing resumes and he settles back into deep REM sleep, and Dorian braves a light kiss to the skin just beneath John's hairline.

He likes John like this, quiet and pliable and lax, light snores emitting from where his face is mushed into the pillow. There's a light dusting of freckles along his shoulders, just above the coiled dragon on his right bicep, and Dorian presses a line of lazy kisses along those as well before lying back, breathing in the faint smell of shampoo and a trace of aftershave where John didn't quite catch it in his shower.

"Son of a bitch," John says, so clearly that Dorian thinks for a minute that he's woken, but then John lets go of the pillow and rolls over, his eyes still closed as he latches onto Dorian instead.

Dorian feels a moment of blankness, a moment of surprise, his hands suspended in the air above John's back as John shoves his face against Dorian's chest and grabs onto his shirt, twisting the fabric tight.

"John," Dorian whispers, trying to rise up onto his elbow, but John makes a stifled noise of protest and hauls him back down. "Okay," Dorian relents, lowering himself back down. He smooths a hand down John's back, feels the muscles quiver and slacken beneath his palm.

"D," John mumbles, when Dorian's hand travels back up and pauses at the nape of John's neck, playing with the silver chain peeking out from under his black tank top. The metal's still warm from John's skin, sliding easily between his fingers, and Dorian can just make out the glint of the pendant from where it's twisted around to the other side of John's neck.

"Yes?" he answers, untangling the sheets from John's leg and pulling them up.

"Mm," John grunts, low and sleepy, and Dorian tucks an arm around his shoulders, patting the back of John's head carefully.

"Yeah, there you go. There you go, man." Dorian quirks another smile, rests his chin in the mess of John's hair. John's heart is still beating, strong and heavy against Dorian's chest, and if Dorian wants to, it's easy enough to pretend.

So he runs another scan, sets John's alarm for seven AM, and closes his eyes.


	12. Making Out

The gearshift digs into John's stomach, and he gives a muffled grunt as he bashes his elbow against the steering wheel. "Ow, goddammit-"

Dorian laughs against John's mouth, his hand sneaking around to cup the back of John's neck and pull him closer. "You all right there, man?"

"No," John grumbles, then sucks in a breath when Dorian's other hand pulls at his shirt, untucking it from his pants and sliding under to tickle along John's side. "Quit that, you-"

"You were saying?" Dorian murmurs, smiling into the side of John's neck. "C'mon, over here." He spreads his legs and pats his lap, and John wrenches himself away just enough to glare down at him. Dorian just gives him a goofy grin and John abruptly realize how ineffectual he must look like now, his hair all mussed and lips still stinging from Dorian's earlier biting.

"You need a bigger car," Dorian tells him, and John snorts. "No, really, something classy. A minivan, maybe-"

"God, shut up," John says, leaning in again, but Dorian pulls back playfully, his grin widening.

"Come on," Dorian says again, and John's swaying forward before he can help himself.

"Dammit," he mutters, then grips his armrest with one hand and reaches over to support himself against the headrest beside Dorian's ear, swinging a leg over Dorian's seat. Dorian holds onto his waist, pulls him over effortlessly and slides his hands down the back of John's thighs, scooting his knees up around Dorian's hips.

"There, isn't this better?" Dorian asks, patting John's ass cheerfully. John scowls, annoyance mingling with self-consciousness as Dorian's eyes meets his, and he leans forward to avoid the blue gaze, bumping his forehead against Dorian's.

"Knock it off," John growls, and Dorian's hands tighten on his hips.

"Nah, you love it," Dorian tells him unabashedly, then kisses away John's complaints. Dorian, John has to admit, is a fantastic kisser. A goddamn natural with the way he sucks on John's lower lip and teases in between with little flicks of his tongue. It's a little drier than John's used to, a little more forceful, the jaw in between his hands stronger and more angled, but he finds himself making embarrassing little noises when Dorian tilts his seat back and drags John farther up his body.

Dorian raises his knee slightly, nudges between John's legs and causes John to curse and scoot a couple more inches upwards. "You're hard," Dorian breathes, his fingertips creeping along the skin above John's waistband, and John shakes his head adamantly.

"No-want to keep going," he mutters, nuzzling insistently at Dorian's cheek. He feels drunk on the streetlights streaking orange through the car windows, the sound of distant traffic and muted honking, the way he can _feel_ Dorian beneath him, around him, humming like he's part of the engine itself. "Just like this, c'mon. C'mon, D."

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" Dorian asks mildly, but he's smiling and his eyes are electric when John opens his eyes. He tugs John's jacket off his shoulders, abandons it when the sleeves catch halfway down his arms, and wraps an arm around John's waist, pushing his hand up the back of John's shirt.

John hums in satisfaction and finds Dorian's mouth again, breathing in raggedly through his nose as he loses himself in the feeling of Dorian's smooth skin against his own, muted sparks of pleasure gathering in his gut as Dorian shifts beneath him.

"Five more minutes," Dorian reminds, when John pulls back to gulp in a breath of air. "Maldonaldo's expecting us back at the station in ten."

John thunks his head against Dorian's shoulder irritably. "We could not," he says doubtfully, "and say we did."

Dorian kisses the skin above his collar, nosing under the fabric and scraping his teeth lightly over John's collarbone. "How about we finish warming up instead?" he suggests. "Head back to the station..."

"Ugh," John rolls his eyes, then jumps in surprise when Dorian bites down harder. "Hey!"

"Quiet mode, please," Dorian says in his skin, then continues sucking a bright mark at the base of John's jacket, where his collar will just barely cover it.

"Was that necessary?" John groans, feeling himself flush as Dorian buries his face against his neck. "Oh, _shit_-"

"Four minutes, thirty-five seconds," Dorian says, pulling John's hips flush against his. "What do you think?"

"I-I think-" John says feebly, trying to concentrate through the conflicted division of blood rushing through his veins. "I think-ah, hell," he says resignedly, and dives in once more.


	13. Eating Ice Cream

Dorian watches John's tongue dart out and catch the pale green drop before it rolls over his knuckles, flicking at the corner of his mouth absently before withdrawing again. It's a fascinating dance, John turning his wrist as he eats to maintain the shape of the ice cream cone, the occasional mumbled curse and adjustment when one side begins melting faster than the first.

"You," Dorian finally says, "are such a child."

John blinks up at him, clearly annoyed at the interruption, before grunting and returning to his painstakingly meticulous eating. "Am not."

"Glaciers have moved faster. And you've got something…." Dorian points vaguely at his face and John scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth irritably.

"It's an art, okay? You have to keep it even, see? And if you bite down, then you get a brain freeze and it's not worth it, trust me." John takes a deliberately slow lick, crunching down on the chocolate chips, and Dorian watches intently for- yes, there it is, John's tongue swiping out again at the edge of his lip.

"Figured you for a vanilla kind of guy," Dorian says meaningfully, leaning back against the park bench and tipping his head up to look at the sky as John turns and scowls.

"Really, Dorian. That's what you're going with?" John snorts, shaking his head, and Dorian blinks up at the puffy clouds innocuously.

"You know, it's a real shame you can't eat," John continues, clearly not planning to let this go any time soon. "Otherwise I'd-" he mimes shoving the ice cream in Dorian's face. "Show you the real joys in life." John moves his hands when he talks, Dorian has noticed over time, and he gestures a little now, flicking a drop of melted mint ice cream into the air.

"I didn't know you knew the word."

"Ha." John points the cone at Dorian. "Funny." A small glop of ice cream slides off the tip, and Dorian reaches out before it can fall on John's pants, feels it drip on the side of his index finger.

"Napkin," John mutters automatically, reaching for the pile stuffed in his jacket pocket, but Dorian shakes his head and lifts his hand to his mouth.

"I got it," he says, and licks his finger. He can see John's face through his peripherals, see the way his mouth falls open and his eyebrows drop down before rising back up again with almost ridiculous speed.

It's not that Dorian can't eat- it's more that he prefers not to. It's not so much out of principle than it is out of practicality. It serves no purpose other than personal satisfaction and the post-process is always...time-consuming, to say the least.

That being said, he wishes a little that he did this sooner, if only to see John's expression.

"You-" John splutters, watching fixedly as Dorian pops his finger in his mouth and sucks off the rest of the ice cream. It tastes faintly of sugar, a little of mint; his sensory levels need a little adjusting, he decides.

"Hmm?"

"You," John tries again, and when Dorian looks over smugly, he's surprised to see a flush creeping its way up John's neck.

"Yes?" he asks this time, and when the tip of John's tongue reappears at the corner of his mouth in a nervous flick, Dorian mirrors the gesture.

John makes a strangled sound, like a choked off squawk, and looks away, chomping down fiercely on his ice cream despite his earlier arguments.

Dorian leaves him to it and gazes out contentedly over the soccer field. There's a couple of kids kicking a ball around at the far end, their parents lounging in the side bleachers, and he can hear their shouts and laughter in the distance.

Beside him, John's finally reached the cone, crunching thoughtfully as he leans forward and follows Dorian's gaze. "Why didn't you say something?"

"About what?" One of the kids slips and falls, still laughing as he climbs back to his feet.

"Don't play cute," John says grumpily, cramming the rest of the cone in his mouth and chewing noisily as he finishes, "You know what I meant."

"It never came up," Dorian says absently.

"Sure it did. All those times I dragged you out and you just _sat _there. Don't you think you could've said something?" John sounds annoyed, but it's the type of annoyed that only means he's irritated that he didn't figure it out sooner, so Dorian prioritizes it as a minor concern.

"I didn't mind."

"Yeah? Well, I mind, all right?"

Dorian recalculates John's level of genuine agitation and raises his estimation by a couple of notches.

"Sorry," Dorian says finally, and carefully avoids answering the initial question. If John finds out how much Dorian likes watching him eat, an ice cream cone to the face would be the least of his worries.

After a moment, John seems to accept the deflection and settles back with a grunt, crossing his right ankle over his left knee and sprawling his arms along the back of the park bench in an easy slouch. "It's a good day," he comments.

Dorian glances back, sees John lick his lips again thoughtlessly, and looks away to hide his smile.

"Yeah, it is."


	14. First Trip Away Together

"Are we there yet?" Dorian asks, so deadpan that John struggles briefly to be annoyed before giving up and scoffing good-naturedly.

"Almost."

The road ahead of them curves gently around the mountain, trees and craggy rock blurring past the car on either side. John inches down the windows, just enough for the cool air to ruffle across the top of his head, and relaxes back in his seat, tapping beatlessly against the steering wheel.

"You doing okay?" he asks casually, glancing over at Dorian. To be honest, he has no idea if an android can get tired of driving for four hours, but Dorian looks as unfazed as he did earlier when John picked him up this morning.

The trip is, admittedly, impromptu, but so have been every one of John's best decisions. There's a couple of water bottles tossed in a bag in the backseat, along with a package of something he grabbed from the pantry without looking, and Dorian climbed in the car without a word when John announced they were going somewhere.

"I've never been out of the city before," Dorian says, eyes fixed intently out the window, and John jerks the wheel a little out of surprise before correcting their course.

"Oh," he says in response, and immediately feels stupid afterwards.

Dorian doesn't seem to notice, his hand inching forward to press down the window controls. A fluttering sound fills the car interior as the wind surges in, and John blinks reflexively when it slaps against his face.

"Hey-" he starts, when he glimpses Dorian poking his face outside curiously. "Quit that, you're going to knock your head off."

"I'm sorry, what?" Dorian says loudly over the sound of the wind, and John has a brief mental image of a dog sticking its head out the car window for the first time.

"You're crazy," is all he says in return, and he eases on the brakes for the next turn.

The parking lot is small, a couple of spaces tucked into the side of the mountain and strewn with fallen branches. John winces grimly as his back tire bumps over a particularly large limb on the way in, and Dorian rolls up the window again as they park.

"Is this it?" Dorian asks, when John pulls the keys out and exits, muttering incoherently as he bends to examine the damage to the undercarriage.

"This the place?" Dorian asks again when John doesn't answer, climbing out of the car. "It's nice."

John snorts, casting an absent glance upwards. The sunlight filtering through the canopy is pale green, dappling the covered ground in scattered gold. The air's cooler here beneath the trees, slightly damp, and when he breathes in, all he smells is the dark earth.

"Not here," he says, pushing himself up to his feet. "Grab the bag, will you?"

Dorian pulls the pack out of the backseat obligingly, then pulls it open and looks inside. "You know, man, I'm not even surprised anymore. Is this packaged ramen?"

"Don't knock it," John says absently. "They're good crunchy." He looks around, finds the narrow hiking trail winding up around the corner of the lot and out of sight into the trees. "Come on, it's this way."

Dorian's quiet for all of five minutes, during which John focuses on planting one foot in front of the other and evening out his breaths. It's not a long way to go, but the trail is tricky, doubling back in some areas and overgrown in others.

"So this," Dorian says from behind him, as John steps awkwardly over a sprawling fern and ducks a low-hanging branch simultaneously. "This is your idea of a fun time?"

"What, you're not having fun?" John grumbles. He misplaces his foot and slips on the wet leaves coating the trail. The ground tilts from beneath him and he pinwheels briefly, feeling the familiar clench of disorientation in his gut as he stumbles backwards.

Dorian's hand catches his elbow, another hand flying up to plant itself between John's shoulder blades, and John stares up at a tiny patch of sky overhead for a moment, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

"Oops," he says, too late, and Dorian huffs quietly in amusement before tipping him upright.

"Should I lead you in?" Dorian says gravely, and John snorts before he can catch himself.

"You know what, I think I'm good." He shrugs away Dorian's lingering hand and bunches his hands in his jacket pockets. They resume climbing, and if Dorian's walking a little closer behind John now, neither of them mention it.

It's not long before there's a thin sheen of sweat on the back of John's neck where his collar rubs against his skin, his breaths coming in deeper and harder. His legs are interesting- one burning slightly with every step and the other painless and annoyingly functional. Either way, John's relieved to see the trees thinning out in front of them, giving way to bright sunlight and a small area where the trail levels briefly before continuing to spiral upwards.

"We're not going to the top?" Dorian questions, when John stops.

"Nah, the top's overrated," John grunts, stepping off the trail onto the spongier ground. "This is nicer, trust me."

"That sounds risky."

"Yeah, well, that's me. All about risky." John maneuvers around a pile of mossy boulders, pushes aside a couple of thin branches, and there- there is it.

It's almost exactly as he remembers, which gives him some pause before he moves forward to let Dorian stand beside him.

The trees open out to reveal a short jut of dirt and stone before a sheer drop down the side of the mountain, overlooking the valley. A sea of green spreads out below them, sloping down and up again along the ridges of the hills, and on the far horizon, a glittering line where the city lies. John feels the wind against his face, blowing cool along his hairline where sweat has gathered over the past half hour, and he sees it rippling across the treetops, a silvery wave that shakes the leaves and fills the air with rustling sighs.

Dorian's quiet, and when John glances at him uncertainly, he sees that Dorian's looking over the valley with undisguised fascination, his circuits pulsing sporadically with every blink.

"My dad used to take me out here," John began slowly, looking back to the front. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dorian's head turn towards him, and he carefully fixes his eyes in the distance. "First time was when I was about eight, I think. Just a kid. We couldn't make it all the way to the top because it gets real steep after this bit, a real tricky climb."

The words come easier the long he talks, and he only stops to clear his throat once and recollect his thoughts. "So my dad, he takes me out here instead, said his dad did the same thing when he was my age. Told me it was the next best thing."

He watches a tiny dark speck of a car crawl along the gray line of the highway cutting through the valley. The city seems so small from here, so innocuous...he wonders for a moment if his dad thought the same thing once, that all that glitters is just a cover-up for the twisted shit underneath.

Dorian's hand bumps against his shoulder, just enough to jolt him from his thoughts, and John blinks up at him.

"He was right," Dorian says, the skin around his eyes crinkling in the faint smile he always seems to wear, and John humphs, looking away to hide the twitch of his mouth. Dorian's hand settles comfortably on his arm, a familiar weight that John can't bring himself to push away this time.

"Hey," he says after a few moments. "You've never been to the beach either, I'm guessing."

"No."

"Well, we can't have that."


	15. Different Clothes Style

"It's not really…you," Dorian says, staring critically at the mirror.

John glances at his watch. "Look, it's for me to wear at home, not a catwalk. Just grab something shiny and let's go."

"I just don't think red's your color," Dorian continues, ignoring him. "Dr. Sharon?"

The optometrist bobs up to peer in John's face and John glares back. The glasses frames are a little large on him, sliding down the end of his nose, and he pushes them up belligerently. It's probably not as aggressive a move as he intends, judging by Dr. Sharon's completely unimpressed expression.

"Definitely not," she concludes, plucking the glasses off John's face. "Something newer, perhaps, we've just got the latest selection in."

"Look, lady," John complains. "I don't need anything fancy-"

"Hush," she says absently, gesturing at Dorian. "Come and have a look at the catalog, you seem sensible enough."

'Sensible,' Dorian mouths at John with a grin as he follows Dr. Sharon back to the counter. John watches them bend over the catalog, then scratches at the back of his head with a sigh and turns to survey the glittering racks of frames spinning slowly before him.

Glasses are more of a fashion statement these days than anything else, what with surgical correction becoming the standard now, but just the thought of lasers searing into his eyeballs…John suppresses a shudder. He'll deal with reading glasses, thanks.

"John," Dorian says, and John looks up to see him approaching with another case in his hand. "Try this one."

Behind him, Dr. Sharon's lips are pinched together disapprovingly, her severe bob swaying as she shakes her head. "It's too plain, I tell you. A man with _such potential_-"

"Yeah, yeah, thanks." John opens the case, fishes out the glasses folded inside. The frames are plain and black, a razor thin blue line running down the arms that he can only just barely make out if he tilts them just right.

"What do you think?" Dorian asks, too casual to be just that. John glances at him, sees the anxious way Dorian's watching him.

"They're not bad," he says grudgingly, pulling them on. The lenses are there for show, and the world's slightly blurry as he squints through them. "How's that?"

Dorian's watching him oddly, and Sharon's got an interested gleam in her eyes now. John blinks at them, feeling owlish and dumb, and he counters it with a scowl.

"What? Is it that bad?"

"No," Dorian says instantly. "It's not bad."

"Not bad at all." Dr. Sharon sucks on her upper teeth, eyeing him contemplatively. "Yes, I think that works nicely, don't you? With the black. And the…..yes, the blue does work. Got you a matching pair now, don't you?"

"What?" John turns his head to look at her, and he glimpses a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. He pauses, turns his head back more slowly, and studies his reflection in one of the many mirrors lining the walls.

"Huh," he says finally, tilting his head again and watching as the light caught the blue line on the side of the glasses, flickering briefly and disappearing again. "Look at that." He meets Dorian's eyes in the mirror, watches the blue spark trail down Dorian's cheek in response, and turns around to face the waiting optometrist.

"I'll take it."


	16. Morning Rituals

The sheets are warm against John's cheek, and he mushes his face deeper into the pillow with a groan when Dorian pokes at his arm. "Staaorghp."

"John. It's time to get up."

John reaches back blindly, smacking Dorian's hand away and rolling onto his stomach, shoving his arms beneath the cool side of the pillow. "G'way, Dorrrr...s'my day off."

"Nuh uh." Dorian's hand pats at the back of his neck, tickling the sides and causing John's shoulders to hunch up in discomfort. "Come on, man."

John peels his face off the pillow, glares back balefully at Dorian. "_Why_."

Dorian looks back cheerfully, all hyped up on a full charge, and he pats John's back before offering him his prosthetic. "Here you go."

John pushes himself up to a sitting position and grumpily takes the leg, fitting it to the end of his stump and twisting the limb into place. It jolts a little, like it always does, a tingling itch that traverses lazily from his thigh to his toes before everything disappears.

He stands, flexes his leg once experimentally, and hobbles groggily to the bathroom. Dorian follows him placidly, and John ignores him- he does the same thing every morning since he moved in with John, like some sort of misguided duckling, and John's long given up on telling him to stop.

He feels slightly more alive once he splashes water in his face, squinting at the mirror as droplets roll off his chin and drip from his eyelashes. Behind him, Dorian shuffles in, flips down the toilet cover and sits down on it.

John wipes his face with the corner of a hand towel and busies himself with squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush. Dorian's watching him avidly from the toilet, and John scowls instinctively. "Thought I told you to quit that," he mumbles halfheartedly, sticking the toothbrush in his mouth and staring fixedly at the mirror. Dorian's reflection catches his gaze, looks on deliberately.

"Sorry." But Dorian's eyes stay fixed on him, still with that odd fascination that he seems to have with John doing the most mundane things.

John grunts and finishes brushing his teeth, bending his head to rinse from the faucet. When he looks up again, Dorian's still watching, but he's moved closer, standing right behind John.

"Do you mind?" John asks, his voice still gravelly from sleep. He clears his throat and shuffles around, facing Dorian.

Dorian looks at him mildly, his eyes bright and a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. "Feeling better?"

John blinks down at him, suddenly drawing a blank, and he fills it by brushing past Dorian, their arms knocking together for a second as he squeezes through the doorway.

"I'll make coffee," Dorian says, right behind him.

"You don't have to," John answers automatically. It's the same song every morning.

"I know," Dorian tells him. There's an expectant pause and John rolls his eyes, knowing what Dorian's waiting for. He turns, catches sight of Dorian's smirk, and shakes his head.

"All right, all right. C'mere, you." He reaches out, slides his hand around the back of Dorian's neck and knocks their foreheads together before smacking a kiss on Dorian's cheek. "There, you happy?"

He releases Dorian and the android touches his cheek, his grin widening. "Good morning, John."


	17. Spooning

"I don't know why you're complaining," Dorian says evenly, tightening his arm around John. "Little spoon's the warmer spoon."

"Oh God," John groans. "Don't….just don't call it _spooning_, okay?" He buries his face into the pillow and shifts uncomfortably.

"Hey, man, it's not my fault your heater broke down. Or that you somehow neglected to buy proper blankets along with your bed," Dorian points out. His chest doesn't vibrate when he speaks, which throws John off for a bit before he decides it's probably better this way.

It gives a little illusion that there's not another body lying behind him, closer than he's let anyone else in what feels like a lifetime. But this is Dorian, and somehow that makes it a little better, though he'd never admit it to anyone other than himself_._

Dorian's hand pats his stomach lightly. "Are you good?"

"Yeah." John concentrates on breathing, feels Dorian's hand moving against him with every breath. He's put on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt to fend off the chill, and steady waves of heat pulse out from behind him, warmth spreading from where Dorian's chest presses against his back and his arm wraps around John's waist.

"You sure? I could turn it up."

"Nah, leave it. Save your charge." John wiggles again, trying to get comfortable.

"Hold still. Go to sleep," Dorian chides. He's reclining with his head propped up in his free hand, and John feels Dorian's eyes on him. It's a tickling sensation that he's not sure if he's imagining, but it makes him squirm again nevertheless.

"John, you're never going to sleep like this," Dorian sighs exasperatedly. He slides his hand up to rest against John's sternum, pressing him back even tighter against Dorian's chest, and John grumbles wordlessly for a moment in complaint before settling down.

Truth is, it _is _warmer like this, Dorian's arm a comfortable pressure around him.

"Sorry 'bout this," John mumbles, closing his eyes. Dorian's leg bumps against the back of his knee, and John's too tired now to care.

"For what?" Dorian asks, his voice a low murmur. "You need it more than I do."

John cracks an eye barely open and sees a faint blue glow pulsing intermittently over the sheets. He raises a hand hesitantly, closes his fingers around Dorian's wrist. A spark of blue flits down the back of Dorian's hand, trailing away at his fingertips where they rest against John's chest.

"Thanks," he slurs quietly, closing his eyes again.

Dorian's silent for a moment, then gives a soft chuckle that shakes the both of them. "Goodnight, John."


	18. Doing Something Together

The knock on the door shatters John's concentration, and he bashes his head against the bottom of the kitchen table with a strangled curse. "Dammit- Dorian, that you?"

The front door opens and he hears Dorian's footsteps approaching. "What's wrong? You said there was a problem-"

A small blob of gray shoots out from under the kitchen chair and John throws himself sideways in vain. "_Get it!_"

Dorian appears just in time to look down and see the blur dart between his feet and out of sight. "That's a problem, all right."

John struggles to his feet, his face pink and damp with sweat around the collar of his shirt. "Did you see where it went?"

"That cat?" Dorian looks at him warily. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Get it out of my damn apartment, for one," John snaps. "Must've slipped in last night when I came in."

"You've been trying to catch it all night?" Dorian's face flickers blue, and John scowls.

"Quit laughing at me and help me, will you?" He shoulders past Dorian, searching the floor with sweeping glances. The little demon's already knocked over a lamp, cracking one of his glass consoles, and a pile of his vid disks are scattered in the corner. He glimpses a twitch of fabric from his jacket, fallen from the back of the couch, and he drops down into a stealth crouch automatically.

Dorian comes up from behind him, silently emitting amusement. "You got this, man? Should I call SWAT?"

"Shut up, D, and get over on the other side. We're gonna pin this little monster, you hear?" John gestures behind him without taking his eyes off the lump in the center of his jacket and hears Dorian sigh before the android shuffles around the other side of the couch.

"All right, on three," John whispers, inching forward cautiously. "Watch out, the thing's got massive claws."

Dorian nods, looking dramatically serious, and John rolls his eyes.

"Okay, one." He scoots forward a little more. "Two. Thr-"

Dorian reaches down and grabs the jacket in a single motion, gathering it up by the sleeves and scooping the cat up in a bundle.

"You got it?" John hurries forward breathlessly.

Dorian opens the top of the bundle cautiously, his face breaking into a wide grin. "Awww, man, he's adorable."

"He's a terror," John grumbles. "Now throw him out and let's be done with it."

Dorian looks up at him, aghast. "No way, we're not going that. Look at him!" He holds the jacket out to John, who backs up hastily.

"I'm allergic, remember?"

"No, you're not. I've seen your files," Dorian reminds him. "Just one look, c'mon. Look at his sweet little face."

John glowers, then peeks into the jacket, ready to withdraw at a moment's notice.

The cat's smaller than he thought before, he grudgingly notices, a tiny gray ball of fur curled at the bottom of the jacket. Big pointy ears stick up as the cat raises its head, and giant blue eyes glisten in the shadows.

"See, he's precious. C'mere, you," Dorian mumbles, shuffling the jacket around in one hand and reaching in with the other.

"He'll bite you," John warns, taking a step back hastily.

"Like it'll matter," Dorian scoffs, then pulls the kitten out. It barely fits in his hand, one of its stubby legs poking out from between Dorian's fingers. "Aw, that's it. That's right. You're a good boy, aren't you?"

John watches as Dorian drops the jacket absently onto the couch and taps the cat's head carefully with his fingertips.

"I'm not keeping it," John suddenly says, knowing without a doubt what Dorian's about to propose.

"Why not?" Dorian asks defensively, clutching the kitten to his chest.

"_Because_," John splutters. "Just because, okay?"

"I'll come by and feed it. Every day."

"No, Dorian."

"I'll take it to the vet. You just have to give it a place to stay." Dorian's eyes widen pleadingly, and John abruptly finds himself confronted by two piercing blue stares. "Please?"

A second passes. Then another.

John glares at the cat. "Fine," he says, hardly believing his own words. "_Fine_. God. You're such a pain in the ass," he says, not even knowing which one of the two he's addressing now. Both, probably.

Dorian grins at him, bright and happy and open. "Thank you," he says earnestly, and John's scowl deepens, one hand coming up automatically to rub at the back of his neck.

"Whatever."


	19. In Formal Clothes

John stares at the email apprehensively, wondering how the date approached so quickly without him noticing. He always hated the end-of-year department gala, always dreaded it coming and blinded himself with denial, but every year, Maldonaldo somehow wrangles him into attending.

"The gala," Dorian says from behind, surprising him, and John stabs at the screen a little too hard as he exits out of the message. "Are you going?"

He spins around in his chair and glares up at Dorian. "What?"

"Are you going to the party?" Dorian repeats, sitting down on the edge of John's desk comfortably. "It's tonight."

"I know." John sighs, sags back in his seat and props a foot up beside Dorian's leg. "I'll be forced to, most likely."

Dorian's quiet for a second, then purses his lips thoughtfully and glances at John. "Can I come with you?"

John's foot slips off the desk and he slides back a few inches in his swivel chair. "Come with- why the hell would you want to come?"

Dorian shrugs, watching John intently. "I think it'd be nice."

John shakes his head in disbelief, runs a hand over his hair and scratches at the back of his head. "Bots generally don't come along on these things."

"I'm not an MX. Come on, man, it'll be fun." Dorian grins at him. "Don't tell me you won't be bored anyway."

John stares at him, knowing that his mouth's hanging open, but unable to summon the will to close it. "It's- it's white tie, you know. I've only got the one suit."

"That's not a problem," Dorian assures him.

"The hell it's not. Can't have you going around in- in-" John gestures up and down in futility. "You know?"

"So I can come, then." Dorian's grin widens, and John's lost.

...

John's fixing his tie in the bathroom mirror when he hears the doorbell, scowling and pulling awkwardly at the white fabric.

"In a sec!" he calls impatiently when the bell rings again. There's a pause before the third ring, and John abandons the tie. "All right, I'm _coming_."

His shoes click awkwardly on the floor as he hurries to the door and he feels like a damn penguin in this getup, his hair smoothed back and his shoulders feeling too tight under the suit. The fourth ring is sounding just as he reaches the hall, and he wrenches the door open with an irritated scowl and a ready complaint that dies as soon as he sees the figure on his doorstep.

Dorian blinks up at him slowly, smiles. "Hi, John."

John swallows with a dry click, lets his gaze traverse down the length of Dorian's body. Dorian's in a pressed white shirt, same as John's, a glimmer of a blue silk waistcoat showing beneath the lapel of his immaculate black jacket. The lines of his trousers are pressed and straight, ending without a crinkle at the top of his black shoes, and John catches a glimmer of silver cuff links as Dorian holds his arms out for inspection.

"What do you think? Rudy rounded this up pretty quickly, so I wasn't sure."

"It's." John suppresses his surprise, forces himself to raise his eyes back up to Dorian's expectant face. "It's nice."

"You think?" Dorian looks down at himself and John takes the opportunity to step back and recollect himself.

"It's good. Really. I'm impressed," John adds, then halts, unsure if he's overdoing it.

Dorian peeks up at him without raising his head, smiling crookedly. "Thanks, man."

"Mm," John grunts, then turns away before he can make a further ass out of himself. "We'll set out in a minute, I just need to-" He fumbles at his tie again, then freezes when Dorian's hand closes around his arm, turning him back around.

"Here, let me." Dorian grasps the loose ends of John's tie and steps close, bending his head to concentrate on the task. John finds himself staring down at Dorian's dark curls, suddenly forgetting how to breathe as Dorian deftly fixes a knot and straightens the tie.

"There you go." Dorian gives his chest a brisk pat and steps back. "Now come on. We're going to be late."

...

The gala's in full swing by the time they arrive, colored lights swaying lazily over the milling crowd. John scowls as soon as he heard the thumping bass beats, already regretting his decision, but Dorian's bobbing excitedly beside him, head swiveling as he takes in their surroundings.

"There's Detective Stahl, John. Shouldn't we say hello?"

John looks over, glimpses a purple skirt and glistening hair. "No," he says shortly, heading for the minibar. "Tell me if you spot Maldonaldo and I'll check in before we leave."

Dorian trails after him, shaking his head sadly. "You gotta cut loose a bit, man. Live a little."

John refrains from pointing out the irony of the statement coming from Dorian and plucks up a champagne flute, downing the contents in one gulp. Dorian watches him, looking so perfectly at ease in this setting that John has to wonder how much of it is programming and how much is pure Dorian.

"You don't have to stay with me," John points out, setting down the empty glass. "Go on, have some fun. At least until you're caught."

"I won't be caught," Dorian says confidently. He leans against the wall beside John and they both watch a thoroughly sloshed Richard lead an equally wasted lieutenant in what looks to be an unholy cross between the waltz and Irish jig.

John runs a hand over his hair absently, inadvertently knocking some of it loose from the tentative hold of the gel he hastily swiped through it earlier. "It's quieter this year," he says, snagging another champagne from the tray of a passing server and sipping at it, slower this time. "You should see what Paul gets up to when you get him good and drunk."

"You don't call this drunk?" Dorian laughs softly as the lieutenant, a towering woman in teetering heels, bends Richard over in a perfectly executed dip.

"Nah, he's just warming up." John doesn't realize he's smiling until he raises the glass to his lips again. "You'll see. Once it hits midnight, he really gets going."

Dorian's watching him, amused, when he lowers the glass. "Are we staying that long, then?"

John pauses, then grunts resignedly. "Might as well. Got you all dressed up and everything."

Dorian's silently giving off waves of satisfaction when John joins him against the wall, their shoulders brushing.

"You look good, by the way," Dorian says offhandedly. He's watching the crowd when John glances at him, the lights reflecting in his eyes and playing off his face. "I didn't mention it before."

John huffs and shifts his weight, pressing their arms closer together. "Thanks."


	20. Dancing

The bar floor is packed tonight, feet stomping and sliding on the floorboards in broken syncopation with the thumping beats of the old-time band stuffed in the corner.

John leans back against the counter, raising his right leg and crossing it over his left at the ankle. What's left of his whiskey is warm against his palm, the glass slightly chipped at the rim. He runs his thumb absently over the imperfection, feeling his skin catch slightly on the edges of the gap, and contemplates the remainder of his drink halfheartedly.

"Is it always like this?" Dorian asks loudly, leaning in close in order to make himself heard. "Friday nights?"

"Saturdays too." John watches as the dancers twirl into a slow dance, bodies swaying close as the house lights dim and the guitarist shuffles his weight on his stool before breaking into a raspy rendition of a long-forgotten tune. "It's a bit old-fashioned, I know."

"I like it." Dorian is quiet for a moment afterwards, hands folded neatly in his lap as he watches the crowd. Old men, old women, girls, boys, this particular bar has always drawn the odd ones out and maybe that's why John finds himself here every Friday and Saturday night. It's hard to feel alone on nights like these, though somehow he manages.

He hears a rustle of clothing, then blinks as Dorian appears in front of him. "What, you ready to leave?"

"No." Dorian reaches out, takes the glass from John's loose grip and sets it behind him on the counter. "Come on, let's dance."

John blinks again, stares, feels his mouth fall open. "Wha...?"

"Let's dance," Dorian says again, completely serious. "Don't tell me you can't."

John snorts despite himself. "Hey, I'll have you know I was runner-up to prom king in high school."

"Runner-up doesn't prove a thing," Dorian answers, but his temple is flickering and he's got the deadpan expression that accompanies every teasing taunt. He holds out his hand, and John looks down in time to see the webs of blue rippling down Dorian's palm, fading at the fingertips. "Come on."

Maybe he's had too much to drink, maybe it's the combined heat of the sticky summer night and the dancing bodies on the wooden floor. Maybe it's the way Dorian's looking at him, waiting.

John reaches out hesitantly, slides his fingers around Dorian's wrist. Dorian's skin is smooth, only slightly cooler than John's. "Don't you dare," he says, "tell me that you're gonna lead me in."

Dorian's grin is painted blue and purple by the lights as he backs towards the dance floor, pulling John with him.

The air smells of beer, sweat, faded traces of perfume and aftershave. John allows Dorian to step close, blinking rapidly when Dorian slides his arms around his waist.

"Why am I the girl?" John mutters, caught off guard, and he looks down to avoid being stepped on, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides.

"Because you're so pretty."

John glances up, startled, and catches sight of Dorian's silent laugh. "Jackass." He gives the side of Dorian's head a light slap before dropping his hands resignedly on Dorian's shoulders.

It's not so bad, John has to grudgingly admit, even when Dorian pulls him forward impulsively and presses them together from shoulder to hip. A little part of him even thinks that it may be better.

"I like Friday nights," Dorian murmurs, his chin tucked over John's shoulder. They're barely dancing, if that's what it's called, just swaying from side to side with the rhythm of the crowd. No one can see them in this gloom, no one's probably even looking.

John doesn't give a damn either way. He lets out his breath in a slow exhalation, one he didn't even know he was holding, and closes his eyes. He feels Dorian's arms tighten around him, his hand steady on the small of John's back.

"Yeah, me too."


	21. Baking

"It's three fourths," John insists, scowling dubiously at the measuring cup.

"John, I'm looking at the recipe right now. It definitely says two thirds."

"The hell's the difference," John grumbles, but he tips some of the flour back in the bag and folds the top over haphazardly. "All right, what's next?"

Dorian concentrates, his temple flaring blue. "Eggs."

"Damn." John can't remember if he still has any in the fridge and he goes over to check, brushing his hands impatiently on his apron as he crosses the kitchen. "We're down to two," he calls out, staring into the contents of the refrigerator. "Is that enough?"

"Should be."

John pulls the eggs out and turns around to see Dorian watching him, hands tucked in the large pockets of his own baby pink apron. It's a matching Kiss the Chef set he won at the annual department Dirty Santa the year before, so ugly that he kept them just for the sake of having a laugh to himself now and then, but...somehow, it doesn't look half bad on Dorian.

"Remind me again," Dorian says, "why you're attempting to do something you're clearly unsuited for."

John sets the eggs down in a separate container, looks around for a clear space to set it down in, and ends up balancing it precariously between the mixing bowl and the corner of the counter. "It's for Marty," he says shortly, and reaches up to wipe his forehead with his hand before he catches himself and scowls down at the flour still clinging to his fingers. "Like I said."

"Marty Pelham?" Dorian asks mildly, reaching over to move the eggs to a safer position by the sink. "What about his mom?"

"She's got work. It's his birthday tomorrow, D, sue me for trying to do something good for the kid." John picks up the mixing spoon grimly. "What's next?"

"Flour, in the bowl. With the water." Dorian looks on as John tries to follow his instructions with limited success. "You know, for someone who's defused a bomb from around his own neck, you're surprisingly inept at this. It's just science."

"Science, my ass." John stabs at the contents of the bowl aggressively. "You could help, you know," he adds irritably. "You're the one with the damn recipe."

Dorian takes the bowl from him with a prolonged sigh, tucking it easily in the crook of his arm as he proceeds to stir effortlessly. "You're too nice a guy sometimes, John."

"Am not," John responds automatically, picking up the measuring cup holding the sugar. "Now?"

Dorian tips the bowl towards him and John empties the cup onto the growing clump.

"I just know the feeling, is all," John says. "Every kid deserves at least a cake on their birthday." He suddenly feels uncomfortable under Dorian's scrutiny and turns away, busying himself with the suddenly daunting task of cracking the eggs.

"Oh, this is a cake?"

John snorts and hits the egg against the countertop a little too hard, splattering it all over his hand. "Ah, damn it..." He hastens to scoop as much as he can into the bowl, wincing as he catches sight of more than one speck of eggshell. "Those are edible, right?"

"Adds calcium," Dorian says gravely. "Here, give me that." He releases the spoon and gestures expectantly for the surviving egg, which John drops into his palm resignedly.

"Probably shouldn't have tried, huh," he muses, pulling out one of the stools with his foot and planting himself on it in time to see Dorian crack the egg one-handed. "You think the store's still open?"

"No, I'm glad you did," Dorian tells him. He pauses to offer the spoon to John.

John eyes it warily. "There's eggs in that. Isn't there something you can get from eating raw eggs like that?"

"I'm certified in CPR," Dorian says smoothly, and prods at John's face with the spoon until John reluctantly opens his mouth. The wooden spoon slides over his lower lip, and he suspects that Dorian lingers there a second longer than he has to before withdrawing.

"How is it?" Dorian asks, still watching him.

John hesitates, rolling the taste around his mouth. "It's sweet," he says after a moment, running his tongue over the corner of his mouth to catch the last of the batter. "Really sweet. You think-"

"He'll love it," Dorian tells him firmly, returning to his stirring. "Trust me."

John looks at him, frowning slightly down at the bowl in his bright pink apron with the cross-stitched words across the front, a streak of white flour in his hair that's gone unnoticed so far, and he finds himself inexplicably smiling. "Yeah."


	22. In Battle

The shot ricochets off the wall over John's head, and he throws himself down automatically, shattered brick digging into his stomach and elbows. "Dorian!" he yells, shielding his head with a forearm. "Where's my cover?!"

A rattle of gunfire answers him, and he flattens himself against the ground, wincing as sharp gravel flies up around him, bouncing dully against his goggles. Suddenly, there's an iron grip around his ankle and John kicks out automatically. His foot hits empty air and another hand grabs his calf._ "John._"

John drops his head, staring under his own arm, and glowers upside-down. "About time, don't you think?"

Dorian crawls up beside him and together, they stare under the girders of the water tank John's currently utilizing as a shield. "I got two of them," he says, peering out at the courtyard intently. "That leaves four. I see three," he adds.

"Damn it. There's gotta be one on the roof." John jams another cartridge into his rifle, checking the handgun strapped to his thigh. "I'll go up top."

"No, I'll stay with you," Dorian says.

"There's three on ground level, you've gotta take them out. I'll be fine." John starts to scoot back, but Dorian's hand locks around his arm and holds him still.

"I'll stay with you," Dorian repeats firmly. "John."

John looks at him, then jerks an impatient shrug and pulls away. "Come on, then."

Another spray of ammunition clangs against the water tank, and John takes it as his cue to lead the way through the open doorway behind them. The building is dark and cool, sunlight streaming in through the cracks of the boarded windows and painting the bare room in narrow strips.

"This way," Dorian says, brushing past him and trotting over to another doorless entrance at the back of the room. John hears a distant shout from outside and hastens to catch up.

"They're right behind us," he pants. "Damn it, where's the rest of the team?!"

"Peters and his MX are out," Dorian answers, as they climb the uneven steps to the second floor. "Kipling's MX is nonresponsive, I can't get a status update."

"We've been in worse jams," John says, trying to convince himself and failing spectacularly. "Piece of cake." There's a pile of empty crates by the side of the second floor door, and John knocks into them roughly as Dorian continues on to the third flight of steps, creating as many obstacles for their pursuers as he can. Already, he can make out the sounds of their ascent, and he takes the next few steps in hasty leaps.

"Would you like me to carry you?" Dorian asks offhandedly, glancing down at him.

John opens his mouth, then swallows his retort when he hears a crash from the floor they just departed. "_Hurry up_."

"The roof?"

"No, that's no longer an option." Not with three other guys on their tail, gaining with every second. John concentrates on his breathing, one in, two out. "We'll take the fourth floor," he decides. "Keep the sniper on the roof and watch all the entrances. If we're lucky, we can pick them off as they come through."

"And if we're not?"

"Well, we'll be shot, won't we?" John snarks. "Here we go now-"

Dorian leads the way into the fourth floor, sweeping the area with his rifle before waving John in. "Stay here," he instructs, pushing John towards the corner while he heads for the sole piece of furniture in the otherwise empty room.

"Dorian," John hisses, but the android's busily pushing the ratty couch back, creating some form of cover between them and the doorway. He can hear footsteps pounding up the stairs, the indistinct rumble of voices, and he tightens his grip on his rifle, dropping down automatically behind the couch.

A second later, Dorian joins him, their elbows braced on the worn seat and shoulders bumping. "Ready?" he murmurs, and John barely has time to snort derisively before the first of their pursuers appear at the landing.

Two shots crack through the air, and the man falls backwards with a startled cry. There are a couple of thumps and curses as he takes out a couple other people behind them, then bullets are flying, thudding into the back of the couch. One passes so closely to the side of John's head that he swears he feels it brush his hair, and he jerks sideways automatically, pressing his face against the threadbare cushions for a moment.

"You okay?" Dorian calls down, still laying down a line of fire across the doorway, and John pushes himself up again breathlessly.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine." He props up the end of his rifle on the back of the couch, takes sight, then grunts in surprise when a sharp impact punches him in the chest, spinning him away from the couch.

"John!" he hears Dorian, but he's too dizzy to be sure, staring up at the ceiling in shock. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dorian turn sharply to the right and fire, hears the strangled shout from the doorway leading up to the roof where the sniper must have been hiding.

The rattling of more gunfire, and John raises his head in time to see Dorian falter, his rifle slipping from his hands as another volley catches the android's torso and sends him to the ground beside John, the circuitry on his face flickering and dying.

There's a moment of long silence, the last of the shots still echoing in the air.

Someone groans loudly in complaint. "_Ow_."

"Shut up, Richard, you're supposed to be dead," Valerie says mildly, and there's a rumble of laughter from the other members of the winning team.

"Son of a- damn it, Kennex, you're supposed to aim for the vest!"

"I aimed for the vest," John growls, pushing himself up and glaring over the top of the couch as Paul picks himself up off the ground. "It was just closer to the ground than I was expecting."

He ignores Paul's splutters and climbs to his feet, grimacing as his back pops in three separate places.

"Sorry," Dorian says, standing up beside him.

"Hey, last man standing's nothing to be sorry for." John claps him absently on the shoulder and looks down at the front of his vest, where a silicone bullet's mushed over his sternum. Dorian begins picking off the bullets stuck all over his chest, flicking them to the floor.

"Good game," Valerie calls over, watching them with amusement. "Beer's on you tonight."

John grunts noncommittally at the resulting scatter of cheers, then peels off a bullet off Dorian's shoulder that he hasn't reached yet. "I hate this game," he grumbles, rubbing at his chest. There's going to be a bruise the next day, he knows, and even the thought of Paul being more bashed up than he is only serves as a temporary consolation.

"Nah, you love it. Thrill of the hunt and all that," Dorian tells him matter-of-factly. "It's very manly. Very Stone Age."

"Sounds just like me," John says distractedly, picking up his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder as the others begin trekking back down to the ground floor. "Thanks."

Dorian frowns slightly, clearly caught off guard. "It wasn't a compliment."

John can't help but grin at his expression as he heads for the doorway. "I know."

"John, I'm confused."

"Come on, man, we're falling behind."

He lets Dorian puzzle it out all the way back to the car.


	23. Arguing

John is angry with him.

It's a subtle distinction from the normal brooding, but Dorian can tell. He can always tell. So he stays quiet on the ride back to the station and waits for the storm to break.

"What were you _thinking_," John finally asks, his voice low. Dorian glances over surreptitiously at John's silhouette, then back to the front, pulling his shoulders in slightly. It makes him appear smaller, lessens his presence, and he knows that John doesn't like yelling at a nonresponsive target.

"Oh no, don't do that," John says, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. "Don't go all quiet on me when I'm trying to talk to you."

"You're trying to pick a fight," Dorian says quietly.

"Trying to-" John cuts himself off, gives his head a hard shake. "You even hearing yourself right now?"

Dorian elects to remain silent this time, which unfortunately seems to be the wrong decision. John slaps the wheel this time in frustration, sending the car veering to the left for a second. "Damn it, Dorian, you took unnecessary risks today and you know it!"

"I thought," Dorian says evenly, "that I did what was necessary."

"You could have _died_," John snaps.

"You would have."

"Dead's dead."

"It's not for me." It isn't. He's fully aware of how much damage his systems can take, how to delegate his energy to compensate for any loss of functionality. How many shots it'll take to force him into emergency shut down.

How one shot can shut John down for good.

"That's not your call," John says roughly, braking a little too hard at the next red light.

"It's the only call I get to make," Dorian says, after a moment. He looks out the window, tries to find calmness in the flickering city lights and the muted commotion. "It's my job, John."

"No, your job is to back me up," John argues. "To have my back. Not charge in like some kinda self-righteous Rambo and-"

"It's green."

"What?"

"The light. It's green," Dorian points out again, just as the car behind him honks impatiently.

"Shit," John mumbles, jerking the car forward into motion. It's another few tense seconds before he speaks again, scowling fixedly out the windshield. "You don't have to."

Dorian waits, but it doesn't seem like John's willing to continue, or maybe he thinks those few words are sufficient. "Have to what?"

"Put yourself out there like that." John's making one of his complicated expressions now, one of those that Dorian hasn't quite figured out yet. "You're not...you're not an MX, you know?"

Dorian shifts slightly in his seat, feels his stained shirt catch slightly where his internal fluids haven't dried completely yet. There's a total of five bullets lodged in his chest plate, less than he's had before, but enough to be more than a little bothersome. He picks at one absently, half-stuck in his abdomen, and John glances over automatically, grimacing.

"Don't do that."

"Sorry." Dorian abandons his efforts, drops his hands in his lap.

"You're not," John mutters, and Dorian doesn't deny it. "You just don't _get _it."

Dorian doesn't get angry. He understands irritation, knows what the prickling feeling beneath his skin is, but it's never true anger. Right now, though, it's probably about as close as it can get. It's always been John who's managed to push him right to the edge, no matter the context.

"What am I not getting?" He keeps his voice subdued, polite, it's the least he can do.

John gestures meaninglessly with one hand. "It's nothing. Nothing you'd understand, anyway."

Dorian falls quiet again, counts out three streets before he looks up again. "Pull over."

John glances over. "What-"

"_Pull over_."

He thinks he surprises John enough for the man to comply, and the car eventually makes its way over to the curb. They're in a quieter section of the city, silent apartment buildings lining the streets with the occasional group or solitary pedestrian wandering down the lit pavements.

Dorian opens his door and steps out.

"Whoa, whoa, hang on." John leans after him as he exits, confused. "What are you-"

"I'm walking home," Dorian informs him, pulling his jacket shut across the front of his chest to cover the bullet holes. "I'll see about repairs tomorrow."

"No, wait- Dorian-"

Dorian closes the door and starts walking. The car follows him, John rolling down the passenger window to yell out of it. "Dorian, damn it, get back in!"

"Goodnight, John." He keeps walking, ignoring the odd stares from a passing couple.

"Dorian-" The car falls briefly behind before John guns the accelerator again, speeding up enough for him to park and wrench his own door open, resting a forearm against the roof of the car. "Dorian!"

Dorian stops walking, faces John across the car. He knows his expression can be frustratingly blank at times and he shapes it into the one that John hates the most.

"I-" John looks stymied, running a hand through his hair. His fingers hold a slight tremor, Dorian notices. Dorian always notices. John's more tired than he's letting on, but that's nothing new, either. "I didn't mean to...to upset you."

"I'm not upset," Dorian informs him. "I just don't 'get it', right?" He starts to walk again and John slaps a hand down with a dull thunk.

"Wait. Just wait, all right?" John swallows, and Dorian watches with no small satisfaction as he fidgets on the spot. "It's not what you think."

"You don't know what I think. You've never asked."

John almost looks pained now, clearly struggling to form his next words. "Will you please just get back in? Come on."

Dorian looks at him for a long moment. His dermal sensors are tingling, almost numb where the bullets penetrated his torso. John meets his gaze, and Dorian's never seen this particular expression before, indecipherable or otherwise.

He opens the passenger side door and slides in. A second later, John climbs in, and they're on their way again.

The rest of the drive is spent wordlessly, Dorian keeping his eyes carefully locked on the right side window and John maintaining a stiff silence beside him.

"Make sure you get those looked at," is all he tells Dorian, when they arrive at Rudy's, looking anywhere but at Dorian.

Dorian nods once and pauses before he steps out. "I'm not sorry," he says, watching John's knuckles whiten on the gearshift. He leaves him sitting there, and goes to see about a new chest plate.

**TBC in Day 24**


	24. Making Up, Afterwards

John raises a hand awkwardly, then stops, staring at the steel door. It's not as if he usually knocks, he reasons silently. Knocking would just make an already uncomfortable situation even worse. He closes his eyes, takes a stabilizing breath, then shoulders open the door with a casual blitheness that he doesn't feel.

"Morning, Rudy."

There's a clatter and a distant crash, and Rudy's head pops up from behind a pile of robotic limbs. "Ah, John."

"Where's..." John glances around as he climbs down the metal steps, looking for Dorian's charger pod. "You seen Dorian anywhere?"

"Dorian's off running some errands," Rudy says, disappearing again. His voice, when he speaks again, sounds tinny and muffled, like he's buried his head in a metal tube. "Sometimes I, ah... well, food's not a high priority around here, as you can probably tell."

"Huh." John moves a stack of disks from a stool and sits carefully. "Any idea when he'll be back?"

Rudy peeks out at him again, his eyes unexpectedly shrewd behind his goggles. "Why?"

John scowls back automatically. "What do you mean, why?"

"No reason." Rudy ducks back down, and John hears light clanging from his corner of the lab. "He was upset yesterday, that's all."

"Upset?" John's right leg starts jittering and he clamps a hand down on it hard. "What d'you mean?"

"Well, he wasn't _showing _it, really, but he's not exactly the secretive type, you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." John clenches his fingers around his kneecap, feels the dull pressure against the synthetic skin beneath the fabric of his pants. "I'll just wait here, then."

"No, no need for that, mate." Rudy emerges with a groan and props his arms up on the engine he's been rooting around in. "Have a seat outside, he'll be out in a minute."

John stares at him, sees the wry guilt in the corners of Rudy's nervous smile. "You punk," he finally says.

"My apologies," Rudy says, fumbling with the screwdriver in his hand. "I wasn't sure of your intentions. He's really quite fragile, you know, all things considered."

John is quiet for a moment as he stands, setting each of the disks back on the stool one by one. "Thanks, man," he says at last, glancing over at Rudy hesitantly.

"He'll be right out," is all Rudy answers, as he squeezes his upper body back in the engine.

The bench outside Rudy's door is narrow and hard, and John settles on it uncomfortably to wait. Thankfully, it's only about a minute before the door opens beside him, but then again, he still hasn't thought of a single damn thing to say and now Dorian's standing right in front of him now.

He's wearing his standard issue shirt, stretched tight over a new chest plate, and John stares dumbly at the three black letters over his torso. "Um," he thinks he says, but he's not exactly in control of all his mental faculties at the moment.

Dorian sits down beside him wordlessly, and for a few long seconds, John takes in the way their shoulders brush, their knees touching like it's a natural occurrence and nothing happened the night before.

The silence builds until it's almost something tangible, thick in the air between them until John finally clears his throat. "I came to see you," he says, then stops, frowning at himself. _Really?_

"I got that much," Dorian says, his voice even and carefully moderated. "Are you here to yell again?"

"I didn't yell," John says reflexively, then winces internally.

"You did," Dorian tells him.

"I was an ass."

"Mmm."

John stares at his hands, hanging uselessly between his knees. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset."

"You are."

"I just don't get it," Dorian says mildly, and John blinks a couple of times, unsure if Dorian's joking. It's not easy to read him like this, but he's always had a much harder time reading Dorian than Dorian apparently does with him.

"About that," John says slowly. The words come out reluctantly at first, but it gets easier. At least, so he keeps telling himself. "It's not...it's not what you think."

Dorian shifts beside him and John closes his eyes so he doesn't have to look. "It's not what you think," he says again, and prays that that'll be the end of it.

Naturally, it isn't.

"Then what is it?" Dorian prompts, and John knows without looking how Dorian's leaning forward slightly, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. He's so good, so intelligent, so much better in so many ways, but when it comes to things like this... the private things, things that shouldn't be said, Dorian doesn't have a clue.

It makes John hurt and feel like the world's biggest bastard all at once. "I don't want to say," he confesses, and it's the most honest thing he's said in a long time. "

"Too bad," Dorian says bluntly. He bumps John with his elbow until he opens his eyes automatically to keep from toppling off the bench. "Come on, man. Can't be that bad."

"Oh, yeah, it is," John says, like an idiot, then snaps his jaw shut so hard that his teeth ache.

"John, look at me. Hey." Dorian puts a hand on his shoulder, and it's something they've done once, twice, countless time, but now it's like nothing he's ever felt before and he has no idea how the hell to deal with this.

It feels like it's been a damn lifetime since the first day he laid eyes on Dorian.

"It's not that simple," John says hoarsely. "You don't- you don't get it."

Dorian doesn't say anything, but his hand slips off John's shoulder and John nearly leans after it before he catches himself.

"I don't get it," Dorian repeats, his tone flat. "Okay." He pauses, then stands. A rush of cool air fills the empty space he leaves behind, and John raises his hand without thinking, grabs onto Dorian's wrist.

"Wait-" he cuts himself off, but the word is out and Dorian's looking down at him oddly. John swallows, his dry throat clicking, but his hand's locked tight around Dorian's arm and he can't bring himself to let go. Not this time.

"I'm sorry," John says, and his voice cracks. He swallows again, but it doesn't help, and he forges on blindly. It's all that's left to do now; he can practically feel the heat of the bridges burning behind him. "Look, just- don't get upset, all right?"

Dorian's head tips a bit to the side, mouth opening in question, but John pulls hims forward before he can say a word, hooking an arm roughly around Dorian's waist in an uncoordinated embrace.

Dorian's stomach is flat and hard, but there's warmth through the thin fabric of his shirt and John presses his face against him, breathes in the clean scent of cotton and the faintest trace of metal.

"John?" Dorian asks above him, his hands settling on John's shoulders.

John holds his breath and tightens his grip, flattening his palm against the small of Dorian's back and holding him close. "You shouldn't have done it," he mutters, his lips stirring against Dorian's abdomen. "I was...I thought you..."

"John?" Dorian says again, and John pulls back quickly, dropping his arms at his sides.

"Sorry," he says, his heart thundering in his chest. "I don't know- I don't know why I-"

Then Dorian's hand is on the top of his head, light and careful, sliding down and tipping his face up. John blinks rapidly up at Dorian, completely at a loss for words, and he utters a muted sound when Dorian pulls him back into the hug, his other hand wrapping around the back of John's neck.

"It's okay," Dorian says, and John raises his arms uncertainly, settling his hands on Dorian's hips and just holding him there. Holding them still in this moment. "I get it."

His hand is warm against John's neck, his thumb circling the soft skin just beneath his hairline, and John feels himself deflate, exhaling long and and shaky into Dorian's stomach. "Okay."


	25. Gazing Into Each Other's Eyes

John always falls asleep right afterwards, his head either buried in the pillow or against Dorian's shoulder, and tonight is no different. He rolls over as soon as Dorian moves to lie down beside him, pressing his face into Dorian's shoulder and inhaling deep. His hand touches Dorian's side, then hesitates, and Dorian grasps his wrist, pulling John's arm over his own waist the way he knows the man likes.

"Goodnight," John mumbles, tucking his face down against Dorian's bicep.

Dorian waits a few seconds for John's breathing to settle, his arm growing heavy over Dorian's midsection, before turning carefully onto his side. He's more or less face to face with John now, gazing down at where John's messy hair is tousled over his forehead.

John grumbles incoherently, half-asleep already, and he tries to mush his forehead into Dorian's chest. Dorian catches the side of his face with his hand, tips it up so he can inspect it, and John squints up at him blearily. "Wha...wha's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dorian assures him. He pulls gently at the skin under John's left eye with his thumb, smooths over a fading bruise on his cheek left over from a raid the week before. "Just looking."

"Sap," John mutters, but he opens both eyes, eyebrows drawing down in a slight frown that Dorian knows by now is more reflex than any emotional reaction. "You were looking plenty earlier."

Dorian grins and doesn't deny it. John's eyes hold more green in the half-light, one side of his face in shadow as he meets Dorian's searching gaze. His cheek is rough with stubble, and Dorian runs his hand over it fondly, liking the texture against his palm.

"Happy now?" John blinks and tightens his arm around Dorian's waist. "I'm tired."

"Not yet." Dorian rakes his fingers lightly through the short hair on the side of John's head, lingering at the graying strands at his temple, and drops his hand down to the side of his neck, pressing against the red mark he made there just minutes ago. There's the slightest imprint of his teeth on the outer edges of the mark, and John shivers a little as Dorian traces around it.

"All right, you've had your fun." John hooks his knee over Dorian's leg, pulling himself on top of the android with a grunt. "Now I'm awake," he adds grumpily, sliding his hands up along Dorian's sides. "How do you plan to apologize, huh?"

"Mmm." Dorian tilts his head thoughtfully, then leans up and kisses him. John makes a muffled complaint, but he follows Dorian down when he lowers his head back to the pillow, kissing back with the same impatience he displays in the field.

Dorian slows deliberately, opening his mouth against John's insistent tongue and pulling back enough for John to utter a frustrated noise and chase after him again. Dorian takes the opportunity to sneak his own hands down John's body, sliding past the small of John's back and grabbing his ass, lifting his own thigh to press against John's groin questioningly.

"Good idea," John gasps, his head falling to Dorian's shoulder. John's skin still tastes of sweat, Dorian thinks absently, turning his head slightly to press another kiss to John's neck, just beside the warm silver chain. Sharp and hot and alive. Dorian nuzzles at the underside of John's throat until the man raises his head again, his face flushed and his eyes bright.

"Dorian," John says hoarsely, and Dorian grinds his leg upwards again, watches John's eyes flutter shut and struggle open again. He can do this all night, he reflects, feeling John stir against him in growing interest.

And so he does.


	26. Getting Married

The wedding comes as a surprise to everyone, most of all to Paul, who, seeing as he's the one who asked, is probably the only person that shouldn't be surprised.

The shock of it all, mostly, isn't even the proposal itself, but the fact that Valerie Stahl said yes.

"I think it's wonderful," Dorian says, when John expresses his opinion on the whole thing on their way back from shift. The storm that's been threatening to break for the past six hours has finally decided to dump its wrath on the city, and traffic's a larger pain in the ass than usual. "They'll be good for each other."

"Are you kidding?" John exclaims. "They're doomed." He tries to imagine little Richard Pauls running all over the bullpen, bald heads and all, then tries to superimpose Valerie's image over it. His brain explodes a little.

"And you're so knowledgeable on healthy relationships."

"Hey, Paul's the one who's already run the gauntlet once," John points out. "And _that _ended well."

"Everyone deserves a second chance."

John grunts and keeps driving.

"You were never married," Dorian says, after a few minutes, and John glances at him warily.

"No."

"Ever wanted to?"

The silver pendant swings silently from the rearview mirror. John keeps his eyes locked on the road, watching the windshield wipers move back forth, and he exhales slowly. "No." It's not a complete lie, but it's not the truth, and he thinks Dorian gets it either way.

"Hmm."

John looks over again at the thoughtful noise, scowling. "What, you've got something to say?"

"Just wondering. You seem like the type who'd want to settle down eventually." Dorian gives him that smirk that could either mean he's pulling John's leg or that he wants John to read between the lines. The light turns green before John can decide which, and he lifts his foot off the brake.

"I thought I would," he says, not sure why he's saying it at all. "One day, I mean, once I've gotten tired from all...this." He gestures inclusively with the fingers of one hand before tapping them back on the wheel one by one. "But then...you know."

The raid, Pelham...his leg. It'd all happened so fast that the rest of his life was still trying to catch up.

And then there was Dorian.

Dorian, who's now doodling absently in the condensation on the window. A big block D, John notices, with random squiggles where Dorian's clearly lost his train of thought.

"You don't think you ever will, then?" Dorian asks. He pauses in the middle of scribbling a smiley face and turns to John, eyebrows tilted up in curiosity.

John meets his gaze, blinks a couple of times, then looks back quickly to the front. "Nah," he says gruffly, reaching for the gearshift as the traffic queue squelched to a stop again. "I've already got you, don't I? You nag, I mean," he adds hastily. "All the time, just yakking away, the hell do I need a wife for-"

"That's so sweet," Dorian says, sounding genuinely upset, and John resists the urge to roll his eyes. Barely. "Oh my God, John."

"_No_, it's not. Stop- hey, stop that," John says weakly. "Dammit, Dorian, don't..." He reaches over, gives Dorian's shoulder a few awkward pats as the android covers his face with one hand. "Okay. Okay, you good? You're good."

"Hey," Dorian says, sniffing as he lowers his hand and peers emotionally in John's direction. "I love you too, man. Just so you know."

"What? Shut up."

"Just saying. I didn't know you thought of me like that."

"I don't- huh? What are you even saying, you're crazy-"

"Here, gimme a hug."

"Dorian- _Dorian_, I'm _driving_...all right, just one. Just one, okay? All right, here..."


	27. On One of Their Birthdays

John shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks to the kiosk, fingering the envelope there awkwardly and debating for the five hundredth time whether this was a terrible idea. It's not like him at all, but that's what he's banking on for the advantage of surprise. He's always been told he's the least subtle detective on the force; it's the reason he's been desperately kept from any undercover op unless absolutely necessary.

Dorian looks up at him from the stool, still guarding John's noodles like John left him . "There you are, man. Thought you fell in."

"Ha." John drops down on the stool beside him, waves a hand appreciatively through the steam still rising from the bowl. "I wasn't gone that long."

"Long enough." Dorian takes his customary position on their night outings, hands in his lap and back ramrod straight as he watches John break open a pair of chopsticks. "You're aware that the restrooms are in the opposite direction?"

"What?" John feigns bewilderment, glancing over his shoulder, then shrugs. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh huh." Dorian nods a couple of times, then shakes his head. "Nope, try again. You're up to something."

The envelope's burning a hole in his pocket. John concentrates on twisting more noodles around his chopsticks and shoves them in his mouth to avoid answering.

"John." Dorian prompts him with a nudge to his shoulder. "You've got the face."

"What face? I don't have a face." A bit of soup drips onto his chin, and John wipes at it with a napkin.

"You've got it right now." Dorian pokes at him with a finger before John can tell him to knock it off. "That face. You're hiding something."

"I'm not." On second thought, he should have asked Rudy to do this instead.

Dorian leans over to peer in his face, and John averts his gaze in growing panic. "Johhhnn," Dorian says, drawing his name out, and John folds like a stack of cards.

"All _right_, damn it." He digs the envelope out and slaps it on the counter between them. "There. It's for you."

Dorian looks down at the envelope, but doesn't touch it. "For me?"

John waves his chopsticks around, flustered. "It's been a year. You know."

"A year."

"Yeah. Since I...since we met. Figured it was as good a day as any, I mean, it's just a date...but Rudy wasn't sure when your- your manufacturing date was and we didn't think it really counted-"

"Is this," Dorian asks slowly, "for our anniversary?"

John nearly knocks his bowl off the counter. He steadies it hastily, wincing when hot soup spills over his fingers. "Well, I was going to go with _birthday_," he says doggedly, reaching for the balled-up napkin again. "But you know. Whatever."

"Birthday," Dorian repeats.

John sighs and knocks the envelope closer to Dorian's hand. "Here. Just open it already, huh?"

Dorian picks up the envelope and John picks up his bowl, chugging the last of his noodles as he listens to the sounds of Dorian carefully tearing open the top of the envelope.

"It's a card," Dorian finally says. John grunts, twisting around sideways on his stool to see. It's a cheap corner store card, white stiff paper and gold lettering with notes scribbled in by the more enthusiastic officers in the station. Valerie's neat loops are there, and Paul's reluctant, spiky signature. John spots his own name, beneath the sappy inscription that he's already forgotten the words to.

Dorian stares at the card a long time, the circuits along the side of his face sparking slowly, quizzically.

John reaches in his pocket again and grips the plastic rectangle inside with nervous fingers. "That's, um...there's something else." He clears his throat and pulls out the keycard before he can lose his nerve, sliding it over in front of Dorian.

Dorian looks up, blinking once when he registers the key. "That's..."

"It's not your own place, I know," John's hasty to amend. He scratches at the back of his head, tugs distractedly at his own hair briefly before dropping his hands down firmly to his lap. God, he's awful at this.

"It's just...if you ever need somewhere to stay, I mean. If Rudy ever gets a bit much...the place is too big for me, anyway." He suddenly wishes he didn't eat so fast, if only because now he has nothing to excuse himself from meeting Dorian's eyes and taking it like a man.

"Thank you." Dorian sounds severely overwhelmed, and John's horrified when the android bites his lip and ducks his head in a paltry effort to stay composed, hunching his shoulders over the card. "So much...I...I can't..."

"Don't," John says feebly, but Dorian's already hugging him, tighter than even the time when he was running on half juice and punched Paul out in the middle of the bullpen. "You're welcome," he mumbles awkwardly into Dorian's jacket as the android proceeds to crush his ribs.

"I'll come see you every day," Dorian says decisively, still hanging on.

"What? No, no, you really don't have to-"

"No, I will," Dorian insists. "It's the least I could do."

"It really isn't, D."

"I knew you liked me."

"Hey, _hey_, don't go taking this too far, all right? It's just a- it's just a thing people do...on birthdays..."


	28. Doing Something Ridiculous

"This is ridiculous."

"It's for the children," Dorian says plaintively for the eighteenth time.

John scowls down at himself, glares at the pillows Valerie stuffed in the fuzzy red suit. "Yeah, well, how 'bout I string you like a pinata on Cinco de Mayo, see how you feel about the children then?"

"Hold still," Dorian chides, reaching out and pulling up the beard hanging around John's neck. "It's almost show time."

"I'll- I'll show you...show-" John splutters, glaring impotently over the fluffy white mass. He settles for making a gesture that Dorian shakes his head sadly at.

"Best you get that out of your system before you meet the kids," he tuts, patting John's hand back into a fist with a cheerful smile. "Come on, time's up."

John straightens his beard gruffly and heaves a heartfelt sigh. "All right. Let's get this over with."

Dorian gives him a bracing slap on the back as he paces. "It'll be fun," he says reassuringly.

John grunts and shoves aside the curtain before he loses his nerve. Funny, how he can face on a whole den of drug dealers or take down a smuggling ring without batting an eye, but the prospect of dealing with pre-adolescents made him want to run for the hills.

It's the sheer numbers, he decides, as he sweeps a look of growing panic over the already assembled crowd. They're all right in groups of five, ten, maybe, but God, there must be two hundred of the things here, all watching him with wide eyes and a year's worth of childhood dreams waiting to be demolished by yours truly.

"Dorian," he mutters automatically, already starting to sweat in this ridiculous outfit. Cameras are flashing now, and he makes his way to the overdecorated throne.

"Yeah, John," Dorian says in his ear, and John's more than relieved that he insisted on using comms throughout the event. "I'm here."

"Thank God," John says, and that's the last profound thing he says for the next hour. It's a good thing the kids are able to carry a conversation just fine on their own, seeing as the best John can do is a gruff, "Hi, I'm Santa." He spots Valerie once in the crowd, miming a "Ho, Ho, Ho," that he repeats halfheartedly in five minute intervals.

Dorian keeps up a running commentary throughout, chattering blithely about the weather, the kids, how the Santa suit was a good indicator for John's future figure if he doesn't lay off the donuts. It's a pointless monologue that John would have snapped at under normal circumstances, but right now, it's the only thing keeping him sane as he tips Sally Holloway, who wants a pony and six castles, off his knee and reaches for a vapid-looking toddler.

And then it's over, Valerie's shooting him two thumbs up and a blinding smile, Dorian's deadpan voice is informing him that it appears he's not allergic to children after all- what a scientific marvel indeed- and John's tearing off the thrice-damned beard backstage.

"Beautiful performance," Dorian says dryly, plucking off the floppy hat before John can tear it pieces. "Brought me to tears."

John pulls off a glove with his teeth and runs his hand through his damp hair, wiping stinging sweat from his eyes. "Unngfph," he groans, and throws himself into the nearest chair, slinging an ice pack over his face. "Never again."

"Seriously, man, you did great." Dorian kicks over a stool and sits on it, playing with the bobble on the end of the hat. "They all looked happy."

John peeks down at him suspiciously under the ice pack and pulls it off. "Really?"

"Really."

John spits out a bit of beard that's gotten in his mouth and quirks an awkward grin. "You been good this year, D?"

Dorian blinks at him slowly, his fingers stilling on the hat bobble "Depends. What's the payoff?"

John points at him. "Noodles on me if you're nice." He points at himself. "Noodles on you if you've been naughty."

"So either way, you get a cholesterol spike." Dorian frowns. "I was serious about that waistline, John."

John snorts, then pushes up from the chair clumsily. "All right, c'mon, help me out of this..."


	29. Doing Something Sweet

John stares up at the banner incredulously, silently mouthing the large, innocuously blue words. "Unbelievable," he mutters, then his eyes fall to the open boxes beneath the banner and the world is forgotten.

Dorian shows up later with the new case files and finds him at his desk with a stack of donuts piled on a napkin. "Do I want to ask?" Dorian inquires wryly, dropping the files on the desk and sending a cloud of powdered sugar flying in John's direction.

John scowls around a mouthful and glares down at where the sugar coats his pants in a white dusting, dabbing gingerly at it before giving up and crossing his legs. "It's Donut Day. Just getting in the spirit of things."

"I didn't think you celebrated any holidays." Dorian looks up at the banner. "Though I can see why you made today an exception."

"Best damn unofficial holiday, in my book." John crams the rest of the donut in his mouth blissfully. "Pack these up, I'm taking them in the car."

"I thought you had a no food policy."

John points at him disapprovingly as he stands. "Donuts aren't food, my friend. They're God's gift to underpaid law officials everywhere." He pauses, frowns, then adds, "After coffee."

"Hmm." Dorian looks vaguely disapproving, but he wraps up the donuts and picks them up while John shrugs on his jacket.

They head out to the car and John sticks his key in the ignition before pausing, glancing over sidelong as Dorian as the android buckles himself in one-handedly.

"What?"

"Gimme one." John gestures at the stack.

Dorian pulls the donuts closer to himself, eyebrows arching high. "Are you kidding? You've had at least three."

"The first one was an eclair," John argues.

"Then it should count as two." Dorian holds the donuts out of reach and John glowers.

"Fine," he grumps, turning back to the front and starting the engine. "Have it your way."

"John." Dorian's voice is low and suddenly serious, and John turns automatically, mouth open. Upon reflection, that was a mistake.

The donut smashing against his face surprises the hell out of him, and he freezes, blinking as powdered sugar flurries around him and settles on his eyelashes, his shirt, his _car_-

"I'm gonna," he splutters, spitting out puffs of white. "I'm gonna _kill _you."

"Aw, it's not so bad." Dorian grins at him, then leans forward and kisses him before John even registers the movement, his tongue slipping in John's slack mouth and swiping efficiently from side to side. He lingers a little at the middle of John's bottom lip and sucks briefly, enough to cause a startled hitch in John's breath.

"Sweet," Dorian murmurs before pulling back, blinking in immense satisfaction. There's white powder smeared across his lower face, some of it on the collar of his jacket. John touches his tongue to the corner of his mouth reflexively, tasting the flecks of sugar there, and scowls.

"You jackass," he exclaims, and reaches out, grabbing the back of Dorian's neck. Dorian twists at the last second before their mouths meet again, licking a wide stripe up John's cheek instead.

"You're going to break yourself," John protests, but it's weak and Dorian hums smugly as he continues cleaning John's face. "I'm not going to pay for this."

"You never pay," Dorian points out, and his mouth is sweet when he kisses John properly again, smudging sugar over both their faces.

It's damn well the messiest kiss John's ever had, even from Dorian, but as he nudges in closer and tastes the sugar on Dorian's lips, his tongue, he was to admit that it's also undeniably the sweetest.


	30. Doing Something Hot

**A/N: LAST PROMPT. It's been fun. Warning: This prompt is indeed NSFW.**

* * *

"Haa." John presses his forehead against his forearm and tries to remember how to breathe.

"Relax," Dorian tells his right shoulder blade before sinking his teeth into it. John twitches and curses, but the bite distracts him enough for Dorian to push a second finger into him.

John starts to laugh, low and quiet in his chest, and he can't seem to stop even when Dorian pauses curiously in his preparations.

"What?"

"Dunno," John wheezes, then sucks in a sharp breath when Dorian's fingers press deep inside. A muscle jumps in his left thigh, and he eases the leg out farther, groaning when Dorian flexes his fingers experimentally. "Oh jeez- damn it, Dorian, I'm ready."

"You sure? Your readings show-"

John groans again, this time out of barely repressed embarrassment. "Quit that."

"It's the most efficient way for you to achieve maximum climax," Dorian points out reasonably, and John almost starts laughing again.

"If humans- ah, shit- if _humans _can do it without, you c-can- the hell are you doing back there?" John gasps, his train of thought derailing completely when something soft, cool, and most definitely not what he's expecting dips along his crease, prodding gently at where Dorian's fingers twist inside of him.

"Shhhh." Dorian's free hand drops down and squeezes the back of John's thigh before moving back up to spread him open with a thumb. John breathes in slowly when he feels cool air against sensitive skin, then flinches again when Dorian's tongue starts to make little, teasing circles.

"I'm gonna kill you," he rasps weakly. "Ah- soon as...as soon as..."

"Hmm?"

"What?" John blinks a drop of sweat from his eyes.

"That's what I thought," Dorian murmurs, with a trace of smugness. He pushes his fingers in again, sliding his tongue in between, then withdraws and moves away.

John raises his head indignantly at the rush of air in the suddenly empty space. "What the-"

Dorian flops beside him, sitting with his back against the headboard and his knees spread casually. "C'mere," he grins, patting his own bare leg, and John stares at him for a second, his brain slowly chugging to a halt.

"Huh?"

"Come here," Dorian says again, pulling John up and over by the arm until he's settled on Dorian's lap, something hard and ridiculously large prodding at the small of his back.

"Oh _God_," John says, when he finally realizes what Dorian's planning. "No, there's no way-"

"It'll be fun," Dorian says bracingly, reaching for the half-empty lube on the mattress beside him. John closes his eyes and tries not to die from embarrassment when he hears the familiar sound of the lid popping open.

"I'm too old for this," he mutters helplessly.

Dorian kisses his cheek, a surprisingly chaste and affectionate move. "You're perfect," he whispers, and John grumbles wordlessly, burying his face in Dorian's shoulder so that he doesn't have to look at his stupid grin.

He digs his fingers into Dorian's sides when he feels the android's hands on his hips, then gives up and wraps his arms around Dorian's neck, giving him a gruff squeeze when Dorian lifts him up carefully.

Then, _fuck_, Dorian feels huge no matter how times they do this, no matter how long he stretches John out beforehand, no matter that John's practically putty already, it still fucking _hurts_. John clenches his teeth through the flare of pain, holds his breath until it seeps into something more manageable, a low burn that pulses up his lower back and takes up residence in his gut.

"Ah," he gasps, his restraint breaking a little when Dorian gives an experimental thrust. He's barely halfway in and John's already close. It's the little bit of pain that does it, he suspects- he's man enough to admit to it by now, and he drops a hand down, groping between them and squeezing the base of his cock with trembling fingers.

"I'm gonna-" he says, his voice cracking.

Dorian kisses him again, snatching his words and breath away with teeth and tongue, and his arms hook under John's legs, holding them out and apart as he slides the rest of the way in.

John swears incoherently and tenses, the pain giving way to something else entirely like it always does in the end. Dorian holds still, in the way that only he can do, waiting until John relaxes again before slowly rocking up, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles against the insides of John's knees.

"Oh, fuck," John says fervently, his head tipping back instinctively when Dorian leans forward, pressing their chests together. John renews his grasp on his cock, then stifles what's an undeniable whimper when his knuckles brush against Dorian's stomach, sliding his grip up.

"You good?" Dorian breathes in his ear, still rocking at an agonizing pace.

"Faster," John answers, and Dorian drops one of his legs to reach down and pull John's hand away from his cock, pulling it up and dropping it back on his own shoulder.

"Hang on," he says cheerfully, then tips forward.

John grunts when his back hits the mattress, then bites off a curse when Dorian gives a hard thrust, hitting all the right spots at all the right angles and sending stars through his vision.

"Good?" Dorian asks again, his eyes locked on John's.

He's only going to ask until John answers, so John sucks in a rattling breath and runs a hand along the side of Dorian's face, fingering the circuits that flicker unpredictably down his cheek. "Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, it's good."

Dorian's smile bumps against John's hand, and he turns his face to place a quick kiss against John's palm. John's chest explodes a bit, and his breathless laugh is cut short by Dorian's next thrust. He's moving faster now, picking up a steady pace, his hands pushing John's wrists flat against the bed above his head and his mouth mapping out every familiar contour beneath him.

His tongue works under the silver chain under John's neck, pulling at it just enough to press against the flesh, and John growls. "Knock it off."

Dorian drops the chain, but latches onto John's throat instead, sucking until it stings a bit before kissing his way down to John's chest, as if in gentle apology. Somehow, John used to think that Dorian would be all soft and flowery, but this is just yet another thing he's been surprised with, this...this playfulness, alternating between caresses and finger-shaped bruises that send shivers down John's spine whenever his clothes brush against them.

Dorian likes to kiss him, catch him off guard at the most random of times with lips on his ears, his eyes, the soft skin between his hip and groin. John used to complain, until one day he didn't, and the kisses kept coming.

"John," Dorian says softly, in that tone of voice that means he's about to set the endgame. "John, you ready?"

John tries to move his hands, his chest arching up when Dorian maintains his grip, then falls back with a frustrated moan. His cock brushes against Dorian's abdomen with thrust, the barely-there friction driving him crazy, and he grinds his hips back against Dorian in retaliation. All it does is make Dorian pause, though, his head tilting thoughtfully, and John growls at him in impatience.

"C'mon," he says, trying to urge Dorian on with a heel against his ass. "_Dorian_."

"John," Dorian says in response, grinning fast and diamond hard. His eyes, John notices dimly, are really fucking blue, and judging by the way Dorian's grin widens, he may have said that bit aloud.

"Five," Dorian murmurs, and John's eyes widen.

"_Hell _no." He knows where this is going, and he both hates it and loves it, because damn it if it isn't the stupidest fucking thing he's ever heard during sex, but he always comes harder than he's ever done before at the end of it.

"Four." Dorian pushes in hard, circling his hips in a way that makes John squeak and tug uselessly against his restraints.

"God, I hate you."

"Three." Dorian drops his head down and bites at the corner of John's mouth until John turns blindly towards him and opens for a kiss. "You love me," Dorian adds.

"Whatever," John says, and knocks his forehead against Dorian's when he pulls back again. Dorian laughs softly, not at him, just at everything in general, and John finds himself reluctantly amused.

"Two." Dorian releases one of John's wrists, pulls it down and wraps both of their hands around his straining erection. John's mouth falls open when Dorian gives a careful stroke upwards, but he's got no air left to exhale, and he clenches his eyes shut automatically.

"Look at me," Dorian says, and John's eyes flutter open instantly. He meets Dorian's eyes, sees the silver rings beyond the electric blue.

"One," Dorian says, his hand tightening, and he presses deep into John. It's a tingling sensation at first, starting in the base of his spine, then the shock jolts through him and John hears himself cry out, his feet stuttering against the sheets and shoving him up against Dorian. Dorian, who catches his mouth and crawls deep inside him, under his skin, in every breath and heartbeat, and fuck, John's in way over his head and he doesn't even care.

It feels like an eternity before he comes back down, until he settles back in his boneless, shaking body with Dorian smiling absently beside him as he plays with the mess on John's stomach.

"Stop that," John gripes, batting at Dorian's hand, and Dorian raises his fingers to his mouth teasingly, his tongue flicking out at his sticky fingertips. John watches him, feels his chest tighten again feebly.

"You're tired," Dorian informs him, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on one hand. "You should sleep."

"Mmm." John's so tired, he'd agree to anything without remembering it in the morning, which is how suspects Dorian managed to get his charger pod set up in his bedroom to begin with.

"Go to sleep," Dorian suggests, a laugh hidden somewhere in his voice as he rests a hand on John's chest, over his heart.

And somewhere between this breath and the next, John does.


End file.
